


Your Love (Déjà Vu)

by dantesdivine09



Category: Birds of Prey (And the Fantabulous Emancipation of One Harley Quinn) (2020), DCU, DCU (Comics), Harley Quinn (Cartoon 2019), Harley Quinn (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/F, can you tell im bad at naming things?, harley goes for it, harlivy - Freeform, i really dont know what im doing, its my fanfic and i get to choose what makes sense, ivy has bde, no beta we die like robins, slowburn-ish
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-18
Updated: 2021-03-04
Packaged: 2021-03-14 10:02:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 20,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29540706
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dantesdivine09/pseuds/dantesdivine09
Summary: Dr. Harleen Quinzel has always had an attraction to dangerous personalities.If there's one thing everyone can agree on, it's that Poison Ivy is very, very dangerous.Based on this post:https://fairymascot.tumblr.com/post/632624796740550656/every-morning-i-wake-up-and-think-about-poison-ivywhere Ivy flirts with her new doctor and said doctor, known bisexual disaster Harley Quinn, goes for it.(Title is Your Love (Déjà Vu) by the Glass Animals, a great harlivy song)
Relationships: Pamela Isley & Harleen Quinzel, Pamela Isley/Harleen Quinzel, Poison Ivy & Harley Quinn, Poison Ivy/Harley Quinn
Comments: 82
Kudos: 261





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ivy thrives on being difficult.

**_Subject:_ ** _Pamela Lillian Isley, PhD_

 **_Age:_ ** _30_

 **_Height:_ ** _5’ 11”_

Ivy taps her foot idly, slouching lower in her chair. Her nose itches, which is unfortunate given the current circumstance. The leather straps of her straight jacket creak and groan against the buckles as she shifts, testing their strength keeping her arms bound to her torso. 

**_Alias:_ ** _Poison Ivy_

The man across the table from her drones on and on. She’s quite forgotten his name— Dr. Langston, maybe? Or was that the one before him? A lot of straight white men with glasses have been telling her about her problems lately. She’s getting a bit sick of it.

**_Status:_ ** _Metahuman_

“You see, Miss Isley,” he continues, voice high and nasally. “If you were simply willing to discuss this history with Dr. Woodrue, is it, then we could begin to unpack the motivations behind your… recent actions.”

“It’s doctor.”

He pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “Pardon?”

“You have my file in your hands, you even refer to Woodrue by his honorific, but you can’t do the same for me?” She blows a strand of hair out of her eyes. “Seems a bit derivative, always affording your female patients less respect than their abusers.” 

“Right. _Dr_. Isley. Apologies.”

**_Abilities:_ ** _Chlorokinesis, pheromone control, toxikinesis, toxic immunity, skin pigment manipulation._

The doctor lays his clipboard down on the table. “You mention abuse. Why don’t you give me a few more words you associate with this Dr. Woodrue figure? Thoughts? Feelings?”

Ivy tries not to gag and resumes ignoring him.

“Dr. Isley, I’m only here to help. You must talk to me at some point.”

“Oh, must I?”

“If you ever want to get out of here. More importantly, if you ever want to get _better_.”

“Better?” she prompts. 

“Yes, better. Recover from your… illness, work towards overcoming what ails you.”

“Dr. Langston,” she says, leaning forward over the table.

“It’s Lewis.”

“Whatever. I’m rather bored of talk, aren’t you? Surely there are… other ways you could… assist me?”

Beneath the table, she slips her foot out of her shoe and up the length of his calf. He startles, breath catching as she drags her gentle touch higher, along the inside of his thigh. A shudder passes through him and she bites her lip, keeping their eyes locked.

**_Skills:_ ** _Genius level intellect (botany, toxicology, biochemistry), seduction, hand-to-hand combat, thievery._

“Go on, Dr. Lewis,” she purrs. “You were explaining _exactly_ how you’re going to save me from myself. Perhaps you could begin with removing this dreadful jacket, I can think of plenty of things to do with my hands when they’re free.”

_Throttle you, for one._

Dr. Lewis flushes and stammers, glancing over his shoulder towards the door.

_Too easy._

“I… I really don’t think that’s a good idea…” He notes the displeasure on her face and quickly adds: “Yet! But, with your cooperation, I’m positive the guards will let you—”

Rolling her eyes, she kicks him right between the legs, hard enough to send his chair skidding backwards. He makes a sound like a deflating balloon, high-pitched and pitiful, toppling to the floor in a curled heap. 

The door bursts open, the pair of guards waiting on the other side of the one-way glass rushing in, armed with electrified batons and shackles. One kneels over the fallen doctor, dragging him to his feet as he clutches his family jewels. The other pulls out her muzzle, a solid black half-mask that covers her nose and mouth, and approaches her warily. 

“What’s wrong, boys? No need to get all up-in-arms, I’ve got plenty of kisses to go around.”

“Very funny, Isley,” the one approaching her growls. “Don’t make this difficult.”

“Never do.” 

As soon as she says it, though, she lifts her chin and spits in his face. He stumbles backwards as the acid-green saliva sizzles against his skin, clawing desperately at it and dropping the muzzle. Her smile is short-lived as the second guard’s fist snaps across her face from the other direction. 

“ _Ow_.” She flips her hair out of her eyes, wincing from the pain. “Jesus, fuck, alright, I’m complying. You guys are no fu—”

Her statement is cut off as he drives his baton into her ribs, sending several thousand volts of electricity surging through her. The pain arcs up her spine, crackling under her skin and filling her mouth with the acrid taste of iron. Her vision blackens and spots. Ivy is only vaguely aware of the next taze, this one coming from the first guard. She loses consciousness before the third. 

It’s dark by the time she wakes up, which means she missed dinner. The perfect end to a perfect fucking day, right?

Groaning, Ivy rolls over, sore and aching all over like she’d just run a marathon, her teeth feeling like they’re trying to jump out of their sockets. It’ll fade in a matter of hours, she knows, but that doesn’t make it any less painful to deal with in the moment. 

She doesn’t bother sitting up, instead dragging the thin, scratchy blanket provided by the institute over her head to block out the stark fluorescent light from the hallway. At least they’d taken her out of the straight jacket before dumping her back into her cell.

 _Room,_ the staff insists on calling it. _You’re not a prisoner, you’re a guest._

Right. If it walks like a prison and talks like a prison…

“Hey, look who’s awake!” a sharp, screechy voice calls. 

“Who?” comes the reply from the room next to her, a deep, throaty growl with a New York tilt. 

The first voice, in the room across from hers, continues. “Riddle me this, Dr. Isley, what’s green, blue, and doesn’t know how to keep her whorish mouth shut?”

Ivy bolts upright, glaring at Edward through the thick glass. “I’ve got a better one. What’s loud, annoying, and going to be getting poison in every meal for the next week?”

“Aw, it’s Ivy!” Killer Croc interrupts. “That’s too easy. Gimme a tougher one, Eddie!”

Edward obliges, leaning against the glass of his cell to see Killer Croc. She ignores them both, turning towards the mirror on the opposite wall of her tiny cinder block quarters. 

_Blue?_

Sure enough, the pale green skin around one eye is mottled and darkened where the guard struck her. It’ll be a nasty bruise by tomorrow. She swallows a sigh and lays back down, wishing she could have stayed knocked out until morning. At least then she wouldn’t have to listen to the idiots surrounding her.

Someone out of sight— Nocturna, maybe— tells Edward where he can shove his riddles so aggressively that it devolves into a shouting match, voices echoing up the hallway until a squadron of pinch-faced guards storms through, banging their batons on the plexiglass walls. Slowly, the clamor dies down, the promise of tazing or being dragged away in chains enough to quiet even the most belligerent of patients. The rattling of plexiglass and shuffle of heavy steps fades down the corridor, and after a moment a buzzer sounds, signalling the end of the day. The white lights flick off, plunging the world into darkness.

Ivy lets her eyes adjust to the meager yellow light filtering in from the parking lot lamp posts outside. The thick bars over the windows cast long shadows over the narrow room, over blank white walls and linoleum tiles, industrial steel appliances and a cold, barren starkness. 

Not a cell, her ass. 

“Hey. Ivy.” Killer Croc knocks against the wall between them. “Are you awake?”

She pulls her pillow over her head and flattens it to her face. Maybe she can get the guards to taser her again. 

Croc continues, undaunted. “I wanna apologize for trying to attack you in group therapy the other day. It was uncalled for. You hurt my feelings, though, and it’d be nice if you could acknowledge that.”

“Jesus Christ,” Ivy groans. “Can someone take his fucking thesaurus away? When did you learn words with more than one syllable?” 

“See, this is what I’m talking ‘bout. You know, my new doctor says lashing out like that can be a sign of feeling lonely and misunderstood. I think she’s right. That’s why I been practicing saying my feelings instead of biting them.”

“Your new doctor sounds like a little bitch.”

“Aw, she’s not so bad,” Croc protests. “Brought me pizza today. Real stuff, from outside.”

Across the way, Edward sits up. “Real pizza?”

“Yup. New York slice with sardines. Mmm…”

“I want a piece of that. How do I get transferred to her?”

Croc thinks about it for a moment. “Eating my last doctor worked for me. Maybe start there?”

“Hey boys,” Ivy says. “I’m loving this whole conversation. Really great. But it sounds like something that could be happening tomorrow, literally anywhere where I don’t have to be a part of it. Maybe try shutting the hell up?”

“So, lonely and misunderstood, you say?” Edward asks.

She hurls her pillow at him and it smacks into the glass with a soft thunk, falling to the floor uselessly. Chuckling, Edward settles back down. Ivy can hear Croc’s low, rumbling laugh as well, and a few snickers and scoffs from neighboring cells. 

Always with the fucking peanut gallery. She debates retrieving her pillow but clings to what little is left of her pride instead, hugging herself tight and curling into a ball. Everything aches and she hasn’t gotten proper sunlight in days, but tomorrow should come with yard time, and that’s at least something to look forward to. Despite just waking up, exhaustion weighs heavy on her, the crackling numbness of the guard’s batons still fresh enough to make her shudder. 

Ivy wonders who they’ll throw at her next. One-on-one sessions have always been her most… problematic area, through no fault of her own. 

Okay, through a lot of fault of her own. But despite her loathing for them, men are just _so_ easy to trick, and why shouldn’t she take advantage of that? There’s not much else in the way of good entertainment in Arkham. If a doctor decides to get handsy with his patient, she’s well within her right to remove said hands. Even if she’s the one encouraging it. Semantics.

A small part of her wants to hope tomorrow will be a better day. The rest of her knows by now that it will be just as miserable.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello this is my first ever published fic if the characters besides harley and ivy are ooc it's because i simply Do Not Care abt them sorry i've never read a dc comic that didnt have harls and ivy in it feel free to complain tho i love attention xxx
> 
> hope u enjoyed!


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ivy is assigned a new doctor.

She’s awoken early the next morning by thunder crawling low across the sky. Ivy loves the rain, she always has— it feels like a memory, awakes wild nights in her on the widow's walk of her parent’s manor, daring the lightning to touch her— but rain means restricted outdoor time and disappointment curdles in her chest. 

She drags herself over to the window of her cell and leans her head against the bars, watching the downpour in the misty grey of predawn. The metal is cool and soothing against the tenderness of her bruised cheekbone, the eye slightly blackened. Guards in dark, rain slick jackets trail around the property, shouldering heavy automatic rifles and scanning the doctors and nurses who scurry from their cars to the building doors, umbrellas and jackets and bags held over their heads. 

A woman untangles herself from a shitty little Volvo, stumbling slightly in her heels and dragging a briefcase out behind her. Ivy watches her tuck her glasses into her pocket and scrape the damp blonde hair out of her face, manually locking the car door behind her and strolling through the storm. She waves at a guard with a bright smile that curdles as he stares her down blankly, steeling herself and continuing on her way. 

Ivy snorts. This woman is clearly new, inexperienced and naive. Arkham will break her soon enough. 

The blonde hesitates before stepping inside, tilting her face up to the sky with her eyes closed. If she cares about her makeup or hair or clothes or documents, she isn't showing it, and something about that is strangely endearing. She opens her arms to the rain and Ivy unconsciously presses a hand to the cool, foggy glass beyond the thick iron bars. It isn’t until the woman has vanished inside that she realizes what she’s doing and jumps back. 

She glances over at Edward’s room to be sure he isn’t watching, but it’s dark enough that nothing’s visible beyond the reflection of her own window in the glass. 

Talk about a reputation killer, getting heart eyes for a random nurse across the courtyard. So maybe Ivy hasn’t been with a woman since before Woodrue, she’s been a bit busy with the whole saving the world from humanity thing. And, you know, the whole getting arrested by a man in a bat fursuit thing. 

Priorities and all that. She deserves a few seconds of longing every now and then. 

The lights come on soon enough and they’re released to the mess hall for breakfast. Ivy pointedly avoids Killer Croc, which isn’t difficult thanks to the armed escort her antics yesterday earned her. Two guards follow her closely, handcuffs and muzzle at the ready. Other patients give her a wide berth, not wanting to draw the guard’s attention. 

She pauses by where Edward sits long enough to pick up his tray, look him dead in the eye, and spit in his food. He grimaces but says nothing as she lets it clatter back to the table, stalking off to the sound of muffled laughter from the people around them. 

“Riddle me this, Eddie boy,” Crane chuckles. “How does a man who’s only weapon is his intellect do something as stupid as pissing off Poison Ivy?”

Edward mutters a response too low to hear as Ivy picks a secluded spot to eat. The rest of the day drags by, through yard time and group sessions and game night. She takes her usual post through them all, tucked into a corner, arms folded across her chest, glaring at anyone who dares to try and include her. 

Any activity that doesn’t require her hands sees her back with her old pal the straight jacket, which is, in her opinion, wholly unnecessary. She hasn’t tried to strangle anyone in weeks, and Arkham no longer allows plantlife on site, so really, what’s the worst she could do? 

One of her guards, Wilson, had a lemon poppyseed muffin for breakfast. She knows, because she can sense the seeds inside him, practically begging her to let them grow, worm their way out towards the sunlight. Perhaps the jacket is for the best after all. 

* * *

No one comes for her the next day for her one-on-one session, so she spends the afternoon reading in bed, a major improvement in her eyes. Perhaps they’ve finally given up on the idea of her not assaulting her doctors. 

It’s not that she’s an unreasonable woman by any means. It’s just that they’ve only ever got the same things to say about her ‘troubled past’ and ‘unstable tendencies’, and it’s not her fault every doctor on staff is terrible at their job. 

How many villains are reformed after Arkham? How many get out for a few months only to end up right back where they started, with the same terrible food and derelict game systems and probing questions about their childhood? How many never leave at all? 

Forgive her if she doesn’t have faith in a broken system. 

She mulls this over during post-dinner arts and crafts, ignoring Cobblepot bragging about his new doctor while making some sort of horrible macaroni art. She’s running out of yellow paint and hasn’t quite gotten the lighting right on the fern she’s painting. With a sigh, she stands and slips over to the supply table where everyone is gathered. 

“Honestly,” Oswald’s saying. “It’s refreshing, being treated like a  _ person.  _ I mean, sure, we’re all a little freaky out here, but we’re not  _ freaks. _ ” 

“Hey, Ivy,” Croc calls. “Come look at what Dr. Quinzel got Oswald.”

“No thanks.” She dabs more yellow onto her pallet. 

“But he’s so cute!”

Ivy glances over to see Croc holding a tiny stuffed penguin, carefully cupped in his giant scaly claws. Cobblepot snatches it back and tucks it into his jumpsuit’s front pocket so it’s head pokes out. She rolls her eyes and returns to her easel. 

“She’s the first doctor to really respect my interests instead of discouraging them.” Cobblepot smears more glue onto his project. “Took notes as I gave some of my old ornithology lectures and everything. Bought this little guy with her own money, so I could have more personal effects in my room.”

“Sure, someone making six figures a year buying a two dollar toy is a big deal,” someone pipes up from the group. 

Croc growls low in his throat. “You’re just jealous you’re still stuck with Dr. Lewis.”

“We’ll see about that, I heard he had a bit of an incident with you-know-who. Wasn’t in today.”

Ivy can feel their eyes on her from across the room. She hesitates, brush hovering over her canvas, trying to keep her hand steady.

“If anyone has something to say, they are absolutely free to come over here and say it to my face,” she hisses.

They all turn away and resume the conversation at a lower volume, the stage whispers still loud enough for her to hear.

“I hope they don’t assign Dr. Quinzel to Ivy. I like her.”

“Maybe we can put in a request to keep her away, so Dr. Quinzel won’t get scared off.”

“I’m sure the doctor can handle herself.”

“Wouldn’t want to risk it, though.”

Ivy tosses her pallet aside, kicks her easel over, and turns to her escort. “I’d like to go back to my cell now.”

The room falls silent. The two guards, Wilson and… Charles, was it? exchange a glance, slowly rising to their feet with a nod and handcuffing her as she holds her wrists out. 

“Did you… want your painting?” Charles asks her, nudging the canvas with his boot.

“Throw it out.” 

They escort her back to her room and leave her there to her own devices. 

Okay, so maybe she’s a bit proud, a bit stuck-up, a bit harsh at times. But it’s not like she’s some raving lunatic they should all be afraid of. They’re  _ supervillains,  _ for Christ’s sake, and she’s no Joker, moments away from snapping and killing them all. If they would just leave her alone, things would be fine. 

Maybe humans need things like socialization and art and games, but she hasn’t been human in a very long time. She’s better on her own. 

* * *

The next several days pass in a comfortable haze of isolation. Good behavior earns her freedom from the straight jacket and muzzle, although Charles and Wilson still shadow her for any activities with doctors or nurses involved. 

She sits by the window in the mornings now, hoping to catch a glimpse of that same woman. Most times she wakes too late, finding the beige Volvo parked and empty in the lot, but once she manages to catch her leaving her car. She slams the door on her own long, white lab coat, getting stuck and almost ending up ass over teakettle on the asphalt as she tries to walk away. At the last second she pivots before becoming totally unbalanced, catching herself with a quickness that belies a hidden dexterity. 

Ivy makes up stories about her, an idle way to entertain herself before breakfast. Maybe she’s a vegan with a garden and a rescued pitbull who donates her salary to rainforest funds and spends her weekends volunteering to clean up greenways. The type of girl she’d buy a drink or five for. Or maybe she’s a littering chainsmoker who kicks kittens and idolizes billionaires, the type of person Ivy would tear apart without hesitation. Ivy can’t decide which is worse to daydream about.

When Monday rolls around, she spends the afternoon half rereading  _ Crime and Punishment  _ and half dozing off in her bunk. The book selection is abysmal at Arkham, but she doesn’t have many options when it comes to hobbies here, so she takes what she can get. 

It’s during a period of dozing, the book propped over her face to block out the light, when someone bangs their fist against her cell door. She startles, the book crashing to the floor as she blinks in the fluorescent light. Charles and Wilson stand just beyond the glass, Wilson tugging the door open as Charles prepares the straight jacket. 

“Up and at ‘em, Isley. You’re meeting your new doctor today.”

“Uhg,” is all she can manage, still heavy with sleep. 

“I know, I know,” Charles says, fitting her into the jacket. “But you’ve been good the last few days. They’re giving you another chance.”

“So I just need to cause a scene and they’ll stop assigning me new idiots? Unrelated, but either of you in the mood for a kiss?”

“Very funny,” Wilson mutters, cinching the straps tight.

They drag her down the halls towards one of the ‘meeting’ rooms. It’s more like an interrogation room, the same kind she was in with Dr. Lewis, empty save for two chairs across a steel table. The chair they throw her in faces the door, the wall solid black from the inside but a clear window from the hall so guards can rush in if the doctors are in danger. 

Wilson keeps a firm hand on her shoulder while Charles begins strapping her legs to those of the sturdy metal chair. He wrenches the buckles tight and she winces.

“ _ Oof _ . Jeez, think it’s tight enough? My safeword is dandelion, by the way,” she adds with a wink. 

Someone by the door snorts with laughter and immediately smothers it. Ivy’s head snaps up to find the blonde woman from the parking lot standing there, adjusting her glasses and failing to hide a smirk. Up close, she’s seeing all the details she’s missed from her window, the warm blue eyes, the dimples, the lovely round face. She wears a red blouse beneath her lab coat, tucked into a short black pencil skirt that does little to hide the musculature of her legs and… wow, she must have been a dancer or gymnast because—

Ivy drops her gaze before it can linger. 

This is it, she decides, this is the universe punishing her for every wicked deed. She might as well curl up and die of embarrassment now rather than have to sit across from this woman and look her in the eye, discussing all of her personal traumas. 

“Is that  _ really  _ necessary?” the doctor asks Charles. 

“She assaulted her last doctor, even with the jacket.”

“Dr. Lewis and I also have some… anatomical differences. Please remove those shackles, at the very least. We’ll discuss the jacket later.”

Charles and Wilson exchange a glance, lips pursed, but the doctor clears her throat and begins tapping her foot rapidly on the tile, urging them into action. They undo the restraints around Ivy’s legs and retreat to the hallway, tossing Ivy one last loaded look.

Wilson gives the doctor a nod. “We’ll be right out here, ma’am, just call if you need us.”

She ignores them, stepping up to the table and setting her bag down. From inside she draws a handful of pens and a digital recorder, turning it this way and that and searching for the power button. Finding it, she switches it on and hits record. 

Ivy raises one eyebrow. “What’s with the recorder?”

“Oh, I read in your file that you’re capable of enhanced empathy with nearby plantlife. I know paper isn’t technically a plant anymore, but… probably better to record, I figured. The pens are just a habit.”

She blinks in surprise. No doctor has ever even considered something like that, as far as she can tell.

“That’s… that’s okay. The paper’s already dead.”

“Alright, if you’re sure. My name is Dr. Harleen Quinzel, and I’m going to be working with you here at Arkham.”

_ Ah, fuck.  _

“I’ve heard a lot about you,” Ivy admits.

“All terrible things, I’m sure,” she laughs. 

“You’d be surprised. You’re a real hit around here these days.”

“Really? I could almost say the same for you. I’m not really supposed to tell you this, but on behalf of every female doctor here, thank you for getting Lewis out of the building for a few days. Now we can hang around the water cooler without being invited to his spin class.” She throws her hands up. “I know my ass would look great in leggings, Colin, who out of the two of us has actually seen it?”

“Jesus, maybe I should have broken his jaw instead.”

“As your doctor, I can’t legally recommend that.” 

Ivy shrugs as much as she can in the straight jacket. “I won’t tell if you won’t.”

“So,” Dr. Quinzel says, tenting her fingers in front of her face. “It’s written in your file that when you were committed to Arkham this time around, you made a deal with Batman that you’d be on your best behavior in exchange for staying off the sedatives we had you on originally. A lot of people— guards, doctors, other patients— are advocating to have you put back on that medication. Is that what you want?”

“Obviously not. Which patients?”

“Respectfully, I’m no snitch. Why act out?”

“It was Eddie, wasn’t it?”

“No comment. Why?”

“I’m wasted on good behavior, doc.”

This earns a smile. Dr. Quinzel has a nice smile. “Awfully dramatic. I’m going to recommend you’re kept off medication for now, but if you’re unwilling to cooperate it might be above my head. You’re a smart lady, I’m sure you’ll make the right choice.”

“Of course. A life of right choices, that’s what landed me in the looney bin.”

“Please don’t refer to Arkham as a  _ looney bin. _ ”

“Why not? Just ask Hatter, we’re all mad here.”

“Perhaps  _ you  _ are,” Dr. Quinzel says haughtily. “But I have other patients who are quite promising. Just yesterday, Croc tried a vegetable for the first time. Went terribly, of course, but it’s the effort that counts.”

Ivy narrows her eyes. Quinzel is toying with her, she’s sure of it, offering jokes and banter to coax her into lowering her guard. This alone makes her want to retreat, lock her jaw and refuse to say another word until the session is over, but… it  _ is _ nice to talk to someone  _ sane  _ without them showing outright contempt or condescension. 

“I’m no psychiatrist,” she says. “But I’m pretty sure you’re not supposed to call your patients crazy.”

“Psychologist. And I didn’t, you did.”

“Psychiatrist, psychologist, what’s the difference?”

“Four letters, give or take.”

Ivy bites her lip to keep from smiling. “So,  _ do  _ you think I’m crazy?” she asks once she’s stilled herself.

“No,” Dr. Quinzel replies automatically. She’s focused on stacking her pens into a precariously balanced tower. “I think you’re a bit troubled, maybe, but aren’t we all? You just need someone to take you seriously for once. No caped crusaders, no dudes in tights, just a friend who knows how to listen without judgement.”

“We’re not friends.” She bumps the table with her elbow, sending Dr. Quinzel’s pens clattering down, and she gives a disappointed sigh. 

“Is there a reason you did that?” Quinzel asks carefully.

“What?”

“Knocking the table. You obviously did it on purpose. Why?”

“I don’t…”

“A bit childish, don’t you think?”

Ivy flushes, face prickling with warmth. “I am not  _ childish. _ ” 

“Of course. A thirty year old woman with a PhD clearly only kicks men in the nards for serious, professional reasons.”

“I’ll kick  _ you  _ in the— okay, yeah, I’m hearing it.”

Quinzel laughs, a light, bubbly sound, and Ivy’s cheeks darken again. She allows herself that smile, grinning for the first time in as long as she can remember. She’s about to think of something clever to say when Dr. Quinzel reaches over and hits stop on the tape recorder, rising to her feet. 

“Well, I think that’s enough for today. You can return to your room, if you’d like.”

“That was quick,” Ivy says, managing to keep the disappointment out of her tone.

“I just wanted to introduce myself for now. Form an opinion, so I know which direction to start heading in for future sessions.”

“And?”

“And what?” Dr. Quinzel pauses at the door, hand hovering just before knocking.

“What’s your opinion?”

She raps on the door so the guards can unlock it. It swings open, and just before stepping through, she hesitates, turning back towards Ivy with a smile. 

“I believe we’re going to be an excellent match, Dr. Isley.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh boy folks harley's actually in this one
> 
> im trying to balance harley being like... professional and hinged with still being funny but it feels wrong for her to talk like an adult. lmk if it's working or not


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ivy has her first real session with Dr. Quinzel.

Ivy feels strangely light being escorted out of the meeting with Dr. Quinzel. She glances over her shoulder as she’s led down the hall, watching her retreat the opposite direction, lab coat flapping behind her as she strides along. Not paying attention, she stumbles over Wilson’s foot and has to be hauled back to her feet.

“Yeah,” he says. “She has that effect on people.”

Ivy shrugs him off and keeps walking. “What effect?”

“Way I hear it, everyone up top hates her, but Wayne and the patients all fell in love at first sight, so they’re keeping her on for the foreseeable future.”

“Bruce Wayne?”

“He's the one funding her research,” Charles pipes up. “Don’t know too much about it, just breakroom chat. Everyone’s talking about the cute new blonde from the third floor.”

The two men fall into a conversation about some workplace gossip and Ivy tunes them out, turning her conversation with Dr. Quinzel over and over in her mind. The third floor has all the _nice_ offices, so she must either be good at her job or be fucking Bruce Wayne. She certainly didn’t seem like the sugar baby type, but… she didn’t exactly strike Ivy as brilliant, either. Just another doctor in an endless line of them. 

A charming one, though. She remembers the businesslike doctor getting stuck in own car door and smiles. 

Dinner passes almost peacefully before Edward slides onto the bench next to her. She offers him a glare but keeps poking at the remains of her wilted salad wordlessly. 

“You’re in a good mood today,” he decides.

“Getting worse.”

“You didn’t try to poison my food tonight. Something’s up.”

“There’s still desert,” she points out.

“Even you wouldn’t rob a man of his sorbet. Are you sick or something? You’re dying, aren’t you?” He raises his voice “Hey, everyone! Ivy’s dying! Come feel sorry for her!”

She shoves him off the bench. “I’m not dying! Shouldn’t you be dumpster diving for ham scraps, you two-bit Powerpuff villain?”

“Ivy!” King Shark appears at her elbow. “You’re dying? What’s wrong?”

“Not Ivy!” Clayface cries. “She’s Gotham’s second favorite villainess!”

“I said I’m not— hey, second favorite?” 

“Catwoman is big this season,” he says solemnly. 

“Whatever,” she snaps “I’m not dying, okay? Why is it such a big deal for me to _not_ poison Edward?”

Edward pipes up from the floor. “You’ve never not done it before.”

“It is _Poison_ Ivy,” Magpie adds. 

“Are you sure you’re not sick?” King Shark presses the back of his grey-skinned claw to her forehead. “You’re looking a little _green._ ” 

Charles grabs her elbow before she can launch herself at him and the crowd gathering around her table quickly disperses at the glares of her guards. Edward finally picks himself up and sits across from her, chin cupped in his hands. 

“So if you’re not terminally ill, what _is_ going on?”

“Maybe I’m just tired, okay?”

He stares at her, eyes narrowed. Finally, his face splits in a smug grin. “Here’s a riddle for you: what does a man-hating misanthropist do to blow off some steam?”

“What?”

“A woman.”

She scoffs. “You’re disgusting. I’ve never fucked a staff member, if that’s what you’re insinuating.”

“I wasn’t, but it's interesting that your mind went there instead of to your peers. And you know none of us actually think you’re… _promiscuous_ , right? We only tease.”

“I really don’t care what any of you think of me, Ed.”

“Sure. Anyway, we’re doing cards in the second floor lounge tonight. You should join us when you’re done pouting.”

“Hard pass.”

“Yeah, I thought you might say that.” He clamors to his feet. “Invitation still stands, though. Feel free to bring your hunky male escort.”

Rolling her eyes, she looks over her shoulder to where Charles and Wilson lean against the wall ten feet back, quietly talking to a pair of mess hall guards and shooting her periodic glances. She wonders what horrible thing they did to get put on babysitting duty for a woman with minor homicidal tendencies. 

Okay. Minor is forgiving. She’d wipe them all out if she could.

Ivy doesn’t take Edward up on his invite, and ignores him all the next day, too. She’s decided that despite liking Dr. Quinzel more than she cares to admit, she’s not willing to give in so easily. Wednesday brings another one-on-one session, sitting across from her in the blank walled room, the steel chair cold beneath her. 

She has yet to ask Ivy any probing questions. They’re just sitting here, observing one another in the space between Dr. Quinzel’s gentle _How are you?_ s and Ivy’s tight-lipped stares. 

“Is there anything particular on your mind today? Anything you’d like to talk about?”

Ivy glares at Dr. Quinzel when she asks this. She’s slouched in her chair, straight jacket fastened, legs spread obnoxiously, foot tapping. Quinzel doesn’t seem to care, sitting prim and proper across from her, pen poised above her clipboard. 

The silence of Ivy’s disdain stretches between them, and eventually the doctor drops her chin into her palm.

“You realize I’m being paid whether you answer or not, right? The only person your stubbornness hinders here is you.”

Ivy’s scowl deepens. “Anything on my mind besides how much I hate this, you mean?”

“Whatever you like.” 

“Anything?”

“Anything.”

“Alright,” Ivy says finally. “I’d like to talk about how terrible the vegan options are in the cafeteria. I’m starving here.”

“Noted. A good diet is important both physically and mentally, it’s disgraceful that your needs are not being met. Anything else?”

There’s plenty. If she had a week she couldn’t list all the reasons she hates Arkham.

“Need more sunlight,” she lands on.

“Gotcha. How do you like the selection of downtime activities here? Are you keeping busy?”

“No. I’ve read all the books at least twice.” 

“I can put in a request for new books. I could also sneak you something directly. What do you like to read?”

Ivy sits up a bit, interest piqued. “Whatever you’ve got.”

“Okay, I might have something in my office. What else do you like to do?”

“Garden.”

“Well…” She worries at her bottom lip. “We’ll see about that one.”

“Is this the part where you ask if my parents gave me enough hugs as a child?”

“What are your relationships like with the other patients here at Arkham?”

“Uhg,” Ivy groans, head rocking back. “How are you managing to find new questions that are _just_ as boring as the old ones?”

Dr. Quinzel rolls her eyes overdramatically. “Sorry if I’m _boring_ you, Dr. Isley, but not all of us can be spandex-clad supervillains galivanting around murdering folks.”

“It’s not _spandex._ It’s a durable plant fiber blend of my own creation.”

“Well, it looks like spandex in the photos.” 

Another pause. Dr. Quinzel starts tapping her pen to her notepad in time with the rhythm of Ivy’s bouncing leg, the quiet percussion filling the room.

“Do you like inventing stuff?” she asks finally. “Things like this not-spandex?”

“Sure. I like… testing myself. New plant hybrids, new suit materials, new poisons. Better, stronger, faster-acting. Getting creative with it.” 

“So you’re the creative type! Interesting.” She leans forward, scooting her chair in and propping her elbows up on the table. “You know, we’ve got all sorts of activities here that can help you channel this creativity into construc—”

“I can assure you, whatever horrible team activity you’ve got cooked up, I’ll hate it.”

Dr. Quinzel slumps backwards. “You really are allergic to fun, aren’t you?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Game night, team sports, parties… you sit out of all of these events. I get wanting to be taken seriously in a male-dominated field, I do, but you should let yourself enjoy things.”

Tensing, Ivy stops shaking her leg. Quinzel stops tapping her pen at the same moment, eyes sparkling with challenge. Like she _wants_ Ivy to act out. 

She forces herself to take a deep breath and answer calmly. “I enjoy things. I’m just not allowed to enjoy those things here.”

“You could find new things to enjoy. Crane is starting a Dungeons and Dragons campaign, and his ideas are all a little too horror-based for my tastes, but you could play a druid, and—”

“Do I look like the type of person who plays Dungeons and Dragons? You wound me, doctor.”

“It’s been gaining popularity, you never know. But I’ll mark that one off the list.” She resumes her tapping. It’s quickly growing annoying. “I never got into that sort of thing when I was young. I was usually the one beating up the kids who did.”

“Really? You?”

“Oh, I was a menace. I’m sure you can relate.”

“Hey, just because I’m a menace now doesn’t mean I was back then. I was homeschooled, so I never really had the chance to be.” Her brow furrows as the memories well up. “You try acting out in a home like mine. It’s not easy.”

Dr. Quinzel writes something down, and it takes Ivy a moment to realize what just happened. 

“A home like yours?” Quinzel prompts. “What do you mean?”

“Oh, no,” Ivy says. “Nope. Nice try. Clever.”

“I certainly thought so.”

They stare at each other for a long moment. 

_She has pretty eyes,_ Ivy thinks. She likes the way they squinch up a bit when she looks her up and down, like Ivy’s a complicated problem that she’s solving in her head. Beneath that friendly sparkle of warmth is a cold, calculating intelligence. Maybe she was too hasty in assuming Dr. Quinzel isn’t brilliant. 

“What makes you think you’ll be the one to get me to talk?”

“I don’t know. All these doctors” —she flips through Ivy’s thick file— “and you’ve never once felt a connection? Opened up even a little?”

“Dead end there, doc. I don’t connect to people.”

“Surely you must have a _little_ empathy, deep down.”

Something bitter and restless coils within her like a viper ready to strike. The venom of anger and hate is a familiar friend at this point, an acrid bite that curls her lips into a snarl. Ivy jerks forward, bound arms crashing into the table and shoving it backwards. Dr. Quinzel doesn’t flinch, simply leaning away, but her eyes widen and she grips her pen with white knuckles.

“Empathy?” Ivy spits. “You want to talk about _empathy?_ I can literally feel the dying of nature in my very flesh. I can hear the screams of the Green and the triumphant howls of the festering decay.” She pauses to steady her breathing. “You dare ask me about feeling empathy towards a species that has none of its own? I don’t empathize with humans because I am not human, Dr. Quinzel, nor do I want to be.”

There’s a long silence. Ivy hates how still Dr. Quinzel is, from tapping and fidgeting to a perfect statue, staring her down with something close to pity. 

“Does it hurt?” she asks in a small voice.

Ivy releases a slow, shuddering breath. “Not anymore. I can’t feel the Green out here. I can’t feel _anything._ They killed it all; the grass, the trees, the flowers. It’s all gone.”

“I’m sorry.”

“No, you’re not.”

“Maybe not in the same way you are, but I’m sorry for you. That sounds terrible.”

Ivy glares at her shoes, hating that Quinzel sounds like she means it. She’s either an Oscar-worthy actress or the sorriest sucker she’s ever met. 

“It’s okay to feel these things, Pamela,” she says quietly. “I don’t know what other doctors have told you, but this is a part of who you are, and that means learning to navigate the complexities of being a metahuman, not ignoring them completely.”

“Don’t— don’t call me that.”

“What, Pamela?”

“It’s Ivy. My name is Ivy.”

Dr. Quinzel sets her notes down and stands. For a moment Ivy’s sure she’s going to leave, end the session there, but instead she walks over behind her and gently pushes her hair to the side, unfastening the top strap of her straight jacket. She freezes, every muscle locking up as she tries to process Harley’s gentle touch, the warmth of her breath on the back of her neck as she bends over the buckles, the scent of her floral perfume.

“What are you doing?” Ivy asks over her shoulder, voice high and frail.

“Hold on.” 

She unbuckles one strap, then the next, and the next. The door opens briefly and Wilson charges in, but Dr. Quinzel gives him a look so severe that he backs out, face drawn and pale. The jacket falls away and Ivy stretches her arms out experimentally as Dr. Quinzel returns to her side of the table and sits down. 

“I could kill you right now, you know,” Ivy points out.

“I’m aware.”

“So…?”

“So.” She holds out her hand. “Hi, Ivy. I’m Harleen. My friends call me Harley, but you can call me whatever you’re comfortable with. I’d like to get to know you a bit better, if that’s alright, and I’d like to do so without you tied up like an animal.”

Ivy stares at her outstretched hand for a long time. Finally, she reaches across the table and shakes it, retreating as soon as Harley’s firm grip loosens. The warmth of her touch lingers and Ivy tucks her hands beneath herself to stop them from trembling.

“There,” Harley says matter-of-factly. “Now we’ve been _properly_ introduced. I said we would be a good match, and I meant it. I’m not the type to back down from a challenge and I’m certainly not the type to give up on someone.” She smiles. “What do you say, Ivy? Are you going to let me help you?”

“I’d say you’re crazy.”

“Then maybe we can help each other.”

Ivy cocks an eyebrow but can’t bite back the crooked smile that creeps onto her face. 

“Fine,” she says. “But I can’t promise any more moments of vulnerability. You just caught me on an off day. I still don’t like you.”

“Of course. Poison Ivy is _never_ vulnerable. Wouldn’t dream of it.” She gives a dramatic, over serious scowl and nods sagely. “No friends, either. A beacon of isolation.”

“Right.”

“A strong, independent woman.”

“Correct.”

“Doesn’t need no man.”

“Don’t overdo it.”

“No promises.” She checks her watch. “I’m going to ask you to consider participating in a group activity, even just one. See how it makes you feel. If you hate it, we can talk about it from there. Pick this up on Friday?”

Ivy shrugs as nonchalantly as possible, watching Harley scoop her things into her bag and sling it over her shoulder. As soon as she’s gone, though, she ducks her head and smiles. Her little outburst _did_ make her feel a bit better, in a strange way. It feels like Harley really listens to her, hears what she’s saying. Sees. Understands, to the limit that her human mind can. 

Charles and Wilson regard her warily as they enter, but don’t attempt to replace the jacket, instead escorting her unbound back to her room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ivy's speech about empathy is referenced from Harleen #1 by Stjepan Sejic, since this comic is based on a canon divergence from that
> 
> hope everyone's enjoying this if you've left me kudos or comments i would like to give u an kiss ily
> 
> i swear we're getting into the harlivy soon but i did say it was a slowburn. updates might be erratic cause of uni so apologies in advance!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ivy makes some new friends.

Ivy tries not to dwell on her regrets. The world can’t keep waiting around to be saved, it doesn’t have the time at the rate humanity is killing it, so she can’t afford to lament her shortcomings and poor decisions. There’s too much to be done. 

She really, really regrets agreeing to this, though.

“That’s  _ cheating,”  _ she exclaims, throwing her hands up.

Edward folds his arms across his chest. “Nowhere in the rules of charades does it say shape-shifting isn’t allowed. You just can’t talk.”

“Turning into the word is basically saying it!”

“Do not blame me for your shortcomings as an actor,” Clayface says, arms still molded into a windmill. “It’s not my fault you don’t have my years of theatrical training.”

“I’m positive Ed would never have guessed windmill without you making one.”

“You don’t know that,” Edward insists. “You’re just mad you’re  _ losing. _ ”

Killer Croc gives a frustrated growl, interrupting their argument. “Be nice to Ivy. It’s her first time playing, and we woulda won if Clayface wasn’t cheating.”

“See!” She points at her teammate. “He agrees! Cheating! I vote to switch teams.”

“Hey!” Croc protests.

“Yes,” Clayface agrees, melting back into his amorphous form and slinking over to where Ivy sits. “You and me, Ivy, we’ll pair those of greater intelligence against the lesser folk.”

Croc grabs Clayface, lifting him squirming up over his head with a furious roar. They manage to unbalance themselves, toppling backwards into a thrashing heap, and the guards on duty in the lounge watch with disinterest, unwilling to pry the two apart as they wrestle and squawk. 

Edward flops down into the creaky folding chair next to Ivy’s. “Enjoying your first game night?”

“Hardly,” she mutters, arms folded across her chest.

“Don’t lie, you were totally getting into it for a second there.”

“Whatever. I’m almost positive Croc doesn’t even know how to read these cards, anyway, I’m not sure how I got paired up with him.”

“You can have Clayface next time. Down for some Texas Hold ‘Em? We play with quarters so the winner gets to cash in at the vending machines.”

“Pretty bold, assuming there’s going to be a next time. I’m only here for brownie points.”

“Brownie points? You sucking up to the man or something?”

She scoffs. “As if.”

"Then why  _ are _ you here?" 

Ivy fumbles for an answer. She gets the sense that saying  _ because Dr. Quinzel asked me to be  _ will only lead to an insufferable conversation, but can’t think of an excuse fast enough. Admitting that she’s been transferred to Harley and is almost enjoying it feels too much like admitting she’s on the same level as the idiots in this room— something she’ll never be able to do.

The door to the lounge opens, distracting Edward and rescuing her, and Croc hurls Clayface against the wall with an excited gasp. He splatters to the floor and regathers himself, a scowl molded onto his lumpy face. Croc ignores him, sitting up. 

“Hey, doc!” he says. 

Poking her head into the room is Harley. So much for being saved. She gives Croc a little wave, then begins motioning at Ivy to come over. 

She can almost hear Edward's shit-eating grin without looking at him. Dropping her face into her hands, Ivy gives a miserable sigh, pointedly ignoring the doctor. 

“Psst! Ivy!”

Harley’s gesturing is getting more animated and Edward gives Ivy a little nudge towards the door. The game of cards happening in the corner grinds to a halt, curious players glancing back and forth between Ivy and her exasperated therapist, a few of them greeting Harley with the formality of familiar patients. 

“Ivy! Over here!”

Grimacing, Ivy hops up and hurries over. Harley quickly steps back into the hall and she follows, shutting the door behind them and pressing herself back against it. In Harley’s arms is a stack of books, all well-worn with cracked spines and bent corners. 

“I’m clocking out, but I wanted to drop these off. I was expecting to find you in your room, but here you are!”

“Here I am,” Ivy sighs. 

“Are you having fun? What game were you playing?”

“Not important. The books?”

“Right, right.” She shuffles them around in her grip and begins passing them over one by one. “These two are psychological thrillers, but I also threw in this romance just in case. You said you didn’t have a preference, right?”

Ivy inspects the cover of the third book, an obviously airbrushed image of two women embracing. She cocks an eyebrow. “Really? A harlequin romance? This is your preferred genre?”

“What’s wrong with harlequin romance?”

“You mean besides your name being Harley Quinn?”

Harley rolls her eyes. “Well, besides that, some of us are still human and  _ enjoy  _ the thought of being swept off our feet by a beautiful stranger.”

“And you just happen to have a lesbian romance laying around because…”

“Because,” she hisses, face going red. “I brought reading material for my lunch breaks! I can take it back if you don’t want it.”

She makes a grab for the book, but Ivy is several inches taller than her and easily holds it out of reach, laughing. 

“No, no, I want it. For a second there I just thought you had more about me in my file than I knew. You have a reputation for giving personalized gifts, and all.”

“I just—” Harley pauses, taking a moment to process. “No, that’s not in your file. Although your history with your male doctors is starting to make sense. They probably never noticed because they were too busy flattering themselves with your attention.”

Ivy props her elbow high on the wall, books tucked under her other arm, and leans casually over the shorter woman. She loves the way Harley tries to hold her ground, chin tilted up defiantly, cheeks pink. 

Ever since Woodrue, Ivy’s senses are dialled up to eleven when it comes to living things. If her hearing is sharp enough to catch the sigh of a sick tree a mile away, it’s sharp enough to hear the slight increase in Harley’s heartbeat, the steady rhythm picking up its pace. If she can sense her toxins settling into someone’s bloodstream, she can sense the endorphins rushing through Harley’s veins. 

_ C _ _ 77 _ _ H _ _ 120 _ _ N _ _ 18 _ _ O _ _ 26 _ _ S,  _ she notes. _ Levels tend to increase when doing something enjoyable and rewarding, such as socially bonding. _

_ She thinks she’s making strides with me. Hitting it off. _

Ivy offers her a sly smile, teeth flashing. “Or you’re the one flattering yourself right now. Not that it’s unreasonable, looking the way you do.”

“My ego is only  _ slightly  _ overlarge, thank you very much.” She takes a few quick steps back, half turning to go. “Flirting with your previous doctors might have given you a kick, Ivy, but I’ll ask you to remain professional for the time being.”

“Only for the time being?”

“Enjoy your books.” 

“Thanks, Harley.”

Ivy stands there for a long moment, watching Harley stride away with her head held high. She remains until the echoing sound of her heels clicking on the linoleum fades entirely, finally turning back towards the lounge to find Edward, Clayface, and Killer Croc stacked on top of one another, faces pressed to the narrow window set into the door. 

She jerks the door open to find most of the room— Oswald, Jonathan, Maggie, King Shark, Digger, several others— gathered nearby, faces blank as they fall away from her. She hugs her books to her chest and glares at them, face growing warm.

“Not a  _ word, _ ” she growls.

“So,” Edwards begins casually. “How long have you and the doc been on a first name basis?”

“Shut up!”

“Not sucking up to the man, huh?”

Clayface swirls around her feet. “Seems she’s certainly sucking  _ something. _ ”

Ivy kicks him in the face hard enough to send his whole head splattering across the floor to a chorus of chuckles. 

“She just gave me books, okay? Everyone else got gifts!”

“You were so sceptical before,” Cobblepot points out. “Quinzel got you humming a different tune? It’s nice, isn’t it?”

“It’s not  _ Quinzel.”  _ Digger clasps his hands together, batting his eyelashes. “Didn’t you hear? It’s  _ Harley.  _ They’re  _ friends. _ ”

“It’s all fun and games until she poisons her,” Maggie says. “Or makes her quit.”

“Aw, leave her alone,” Croc snarls, coming to stand next to her. “She won’t do that, right, Ivy? You’re not  _ that  _ bad.”

“Thanks, bud. ‘Not that bad’ is  _ exactly  _ what I was going for.”

His face lights up, smiling in a grisly display of jagged teeth. “Bud!”

“Oh, fu—”

She’s too late to react, Croc scooping her up into a bone-crushing hug that lifts her clear off her feet. He squeezes her until she’s sure she hears something pop, arms the thickness of her torso keeping her locked in place like steel beams. She wriggles desperately in his grasp until he drops her, wheezing, back to the floor and lets her stumble away. Croc claps her on the back hard enough to make her gasp, still grinning.

“Team green!” 

“Ow,” she manages. 

“Look at you,” Edward says. “Making friends all over the place.”

Ivy starts to argue but bites her tongue. Anything she says will dig this hole deeper one way or another. They lose interest in bugging her quickly enough, returning to their card game and leaving her to slip away to her room in peace. 

The romance book is terrible, but she inhales it in its entirety before lights out that night. It’s at least something to keep her occupied. If she can’t stop picturing the love interest with blonde hair and sparkling blue eyes then sue her, it’s not her fault that Harley’s floral perfume lingers on the pages, making her mind wander. Honey and jasmine and violet. 

_ Fuck.  _

Harley is her  _ therapist.  _ She’s Poison goddamn Ivy, she can have anyone she wants, and she has to go and get attached to the doctor she’s spoken to twice? What is she becoming?

She’s treading in dangerous waters, sandpaper fins brushing at her legs. Harley’s a pretty face, sure, but ultimately she’s still human, and that makes her the enemy. No amount of gifts or jokes or kindness will change that. Humans are, each and every one, a plague. They’re only useful when she can manipulate them, bend them to her will nothing but with a kiss.

And yet… it hasn’t been so long that she’s forgotten what it’s like to be one. There is a hunger in her, an ache that she cannot call loneliness because if that’s what she calls it then that’s what she feels, and God, she doesn’t want to. Desire is a weapon, a knife bleeding the body dry, and she is always the blade, never the victim. 

Right?

Ivy tosses the book aside and presses the heels of her hands to her eyes until she sees stars. Maybe just this  _ once  _ she could let her head slip beneath the surface. But she isn’t sure if Harley is the blood in the water or the shark circling beneath. 

* * *

Killer Croc sits with her at breakfast the next day. 

She considers snapping at him to fuck off, but he doesn’t attempt to engage, just sitting next to her and digging viciously into his meal. Partway through, he pauses to wordlessly scrape the fruit off of his tray and onto hers before polishing off the last of his sausage. 

So instead of arguing, Ivy says nothing, and he sits with her again at lunch. Croc forks over his vegetables and she slides him the lunch meat from her sandwich, a silent exchange. Clayface joins them, and to Croc’s delight spends much of the meal reciting passages from a Greek play he’s gotten his hands on. Again, she says nothing, quietly suffering their presence, trying and failing not to roll her eyes too often through Clayface’s soliloquies.

It’s during one such eyeroll that she catches a glimpse of blonde hair on the glass paneled observation deck that overlooks the cafeteria. High above them, Harley stands in profile, arguing with a man a head taller than her and twice as broad. 

Ivy’s seen him around before. Not a guard, not a doctor— someone higher up. Important. He has a square, brutish face and a harsh haircut that does little to alleviate it, and stands with his shoulders squared and his hands on his hips. Harley gestures as she speaks, a clipboard tucked under one arm, strands of hair falling out of her usually neat bun and framing her face. Ivy can tell by the furrow in her brow and the tension in her stance that whatever they’re discussing has Harley riled up good, despite the placid face of her superior. 

After a moment, the man says something terse and strides over to a group of doctors taking notes, leaving Harley fuming where she stands. She gathers herself with a deep breath and pushes the hair out of her face, straightening her spine and double-checking something on the clipboard. Her gaze pans over the mess hall, occasionally lingering as she makes a note. 

Finally, it lands on Ivy, who makes no effort to conceal the fact that she’s been staring. Harley gives a little start, then smiles shyly and offers a wave and a thumbs up. Ivy gives a subtle two-fingered salute and raises one eyebrow, flicking her eyes towards the man Harley had been speaking to. Harley just shakes her head and turns away, vanishing from sight.

Ivy nudges Croc. “Do you know who that man is?” she asks, nodding towards him.

“Hmm. Nope.”

“I do,” Clayface interjects. “That’s Jerimiah Arkham, director of the Asylum.”

“What’s he doing?”

“He likes to keep an eye on the patients. Hell of a psychologist, from what I’ve heard. Inherited this place from his uncle and hasn’t looked back since.”

Ivy drums her fingers on the table, watching him through narrowed eyes. What is Harley doing arguing with the director of Arkham Asylum? She resolves to ask her in their upcoming session. 

It’s arts and crafts night again. Ivy wishes she hadn’t told them to throw out her fern painting, the one she had been so close to finishing, but resigns herself to starting over on a fresh canvas. This time she grabs white and red, blocking out the shapes of a sprig of jasmine framed in deep emerald leaves. 

She doesn’t finish it, but leaves her pallet wrapped up and the easel in the corner to revisit later. Painting is nice. It clears her head, even more so than reading, and makes her focus on her memories of the green and growing. With no reference photos it should be impossible to recreate the plants and flowers that she paints with any accuracy, but she does so as surely as if she were staring right at them. They live within her, always, gardens blooming in her mind, layers of colors and petals and the meaning that they carry.

_ Pink jasmine. A symbol of romance, love and affection. _

She turns the easel to face the wall when it’s time to go. 

The last thing Ivy does on her way out of the art room is swipe a scrap of construction paper and a marker, slipping them up her sleeve before any of the guards notice. Back in her room, in the few minutes before lights out, she twirls the marker between her fingers and composes a note in her head, writing and rewriting and grasping for the right words. 

> _ Harley, _
> 
> _ Thanks for the books. Can’t say the thrillers were my speed but I didn’t hate the romance as much as I thought I would. The irony of the main character being a ginger AND a gardener is not lost on me. You wouldn’t happen to have done that on purpose, would you? _
> 
> _ Anyway. I’m looking forward to working with you. I think we’re going to be a good match, too, in more ways than one.  _
> 
> _ Hope you’re thinking of me  _ _ when you find this note, _
> 
> _ Ivy _

Satisfied, she tucks it into a particularly graphic scene in the romance novel, secure near the binding so it won’t fall out prematurely. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks so much for all your kudos and sweet comments!! hope you're liking it so far!
> 
> shameless self plug for my harlivy playlist that i listen to while writing this: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/22UsSp68CeDjik9k1lsy2h?si=pilNq-dETKGDDpKrnuc-PQ


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ivy makes a move.
> 
> Flower meaning translations in Notes at the end of the chapter

Charles and Wilson come for her Friday afternoon to escort her to her one-on-one with Harley. There’s no straight jacket, no muzzle, not even a pair of handcuffs. They simply open the door to her room and look at her expectantly.

“Are you coming or not?” Wilson prompts.

Ivy steps into the hallway, hugging her books. “I was just expecting a little more security.”

“Dr. Quinzel doesn’t like it when we chain up her pet freaks.”

“Yeah,” Charles agrees. “And she’s as scary as any of you, so it’s easier to just let it slide. Not that anyone’s ever tried anything on the way to her sessions.”

“I could try something,” Ivy points out. It’s half-hearted. She’s busy wondering what could possibly make Harley appear frightening. 

“And fall out of her good graces?”

Wilson laughs. “Wouldn’t want to make the psycho-whisperer angry. Even Croc doesn’t put up a fight.”

Ivy considers punching him just for calling Harley a ‘psycho-whisperer’, but their hands hover over the batons at their belts and she thinks better of it. She doesn’t cause a scene all the way to the meeting room, where she can see Harley waiting through the glass panelling on the wall. Her guards open the door for her and shut it just as quickly once she’s inside.

She sets the books on the table and drops herself into her chair, kicking her feet up. Harley looks a bit frazzled, hair falling loose in places, dark bags under her eyes. Still, she greets Ivy with a smile. 

“How are you feeling today?”

“Fine. Books were good. Got any more?”

“I do, actually,” Harley says, reaching into her bag. She pulls out four more books and tucks away the ones Ivy handed over. 

Ivy accepts them eagerly as she slides them across the table. Another romance,  _ The Bell Jar,  _ and…  _ The Signature of All Things  _ by Elizabeth Gilbert. Feminism and botany, her two favorite things wrapped up into one. She pauses, thoughtfully tracing her fingers down the unbroken spine, over the lettering on the cover. 

“This is one of my favorite books,” she admits quietly. 

“Oh, that old thing? Yeah, I’ve had it forever, it’s a fun time.”

“You’ve never read it, have you?”

“I skimmed the Wikipedia page, does that count?”

Ivy snorts, flipping through it idly. “Did you go out and buy this just for me?”

“It’s a possibility.” 

“What’s that last one?” Ivy asks, nodding to the fourth book. 

“This one’s for me.” She slides it over. “I thought it might help us understand one another.”

“ _ The Complete Language of Flowers,” _ she reads. “I do speak English, you know.”

Harley takes the book back. “Yes, I’ve quite noticed. But it’s not the only language you speak, is it? And I’m guessing no one’s ever tried to bridge that gap before.”

“You caught me. I do know a little French.” 

“Tu fais? Alors parlons français.”

“Actually, flowers might be a better idea.”

“I thought so,” Harley says, and there’s a note of warmth there that Ivy wants to bask in forever. “Let’s try again. On a scale of purple hyacinth to chrysanthemums, how are you feeling today?”

“Hmm. White Camellia.”

Harley flips through the book quickly. Her cheeks darken. “ _ Please _ take this seriously.”

“I am. You are. This is a lot of effort just for me.”

“You’re worth a lot of effort. Don’t let anyone convince you otherwise.”

Ivy tries to respond but it feels like there are creeper vines snaking around her throat, digging in and cutting her off. She shakes her head, too overwhelmed to speak, to even look Harley in the eye. She drops her gaze, watching Harley page through the book with trembling hands.

Trembling hands?

She breathes her in.

_ C8H10N4O2. Caffeine, and a lot of it. _

Harley’s heart is racing, and Ivy wonders if she even slept at all last night or if she’s running solely on coffee. 

“How are  _ you  _ feeling?” she questions. “Are you okay?”

“What? I’m fine.”

“Why were you arguing with Jerimiah Arkham?”

“You saw that?” She cringes. “It was nothing important. Just a minor disagreement, that’s all. We’re getting off track, anyway, this is about you.”

“Is he the reason you didn’t sleep last night?”

Harley slams the book shut. “Petunias. I’m feeling petunias right now.”

“Jeez, okay. Sorry.”

She drops her face into her hands and it’s quiet for so long that Ivy thinks she might have fallen asleep. She lowers her head to the table, cheek pillowed in her arms, looking up at Harley. Her eyes are open and distant. 

“You’re right,” Harley says finally. “I didn’t sleep well last night, but I’m not sure that it’s any of your business. The agreement of our relationship is that we are here to discuss you, and you alone, so I’ll politely ask you to lay off the personal shit.”

“If you want me to fuck off, just say it.”

“Fine, fuck off.”

“No.”

Her head snaps up. “But you said—”

“There, psychoanalyze why I’m such a liar,” she says. “That’ll cheer you up.”

Harley rolls her eyes. The way she’s propping her head up in her palm pushes her glasses up on one side, making them sit crookedly on her face, and it melts Ivy’s heart a little. 

“I could psychoanalyze you for days and we’d get nowhere. You’d just hate me.”

“And we can’t have that.”

“No, I’d much prefer us to be friends.”

“Alright, then.” Ivy remains half-laying on the table but cocks her head, watching Harley inquisitively. “Go on, do your psychologist thing. Promise I’ll cooperate.”

Seemingly ignoring her, Harley starts building a tower out of her pens again, scowling. Ivy observes for a while, the pens unable to balance and continually falling down thanks to the slight caffeine-induced shaking of Harley’s hands. Finally, she resists the urge to bump the table to knock it over and reaches over the table to steady it, shifting the weight of one of them and helping it remain upright.

“You need to overcompensate for the extra weight at the end of this one, otherwise the fulcrum will be off balance,” she explains. 

She can feel Harley’s eyes on her as she reconstructs the tower. Not on her hands, not on what she’s doing, but rather studying her face. It makes her skin prickle in an unfamiliar way, and she can’t decide if it’s unpleasant or not. Warmth twists low in her belly. 

“There,” she says quietly, drawing her hands away and leaving the tower.

“Thanks.”

“Is this a habit of yours? Building these little towers?”

“Something like that.” She flicks it down, sending pens scattering. 

Ivy sits up. “What’d you do that for?”

“Why did you help, instead of knocking it down this time?” Harley challenges.

“I… I don’t know. You just seemed frustrated.”

Harley grabs one of the pens and jots something down in her notes. “I saw you sitting with some friends at lunch the other day.”

Ivy notes the sudden shift in conversation but doesn’t fight it. They pick around the subject of friendship, Ivy arguing every point, railing against the idea of platonic intimacy— any kind of intimacy, really. Harley rarely puts up resistance, pivoting between subjects and questions with grace, peppering in anecdotes that get Ivy talking without even realizing it. It feels less like an interrogation and more like a conversation, like Harley’s giving for every step she takes. 

A dance. It feels like a dance. Ivy stumbles and Harley’s there to catch her. She loses her rhythm and Harley changes the tune entirely. She pushes Harley back onto her heels and she twirls around with ease, one step ahead, light and elegant and lovely.

It’s not that Harley’s particularly refined, either. There’s no suaveness to her words and actions, but Ivy is charmed nonetheless by how she snorts when she laughs and falls into a New York accent when she’s not paying attention and gets distracted mid-sentence. 

They end up on the subject of the Bat. Harley begins tapping her foot under the table, rapid and light and tense.

“Do you have any strong feelings about Batman?” she asks.

“Not really,” Ivy admits. “I mean, I guess I hate the guy for locking me up twice, but… he sent me here, didn’t he? He could have thrown me in prison or killed me. Arkham is marginally better than being dead.”

“You hate him, or you  _ guess  _ you hate him?”

“Does it matter? I definitely don’t  _ like  _ him. His whole shtick is a bit funny, though, don’t you think?”

This gives her pause. “How so?”

“Do you think it drives the Joker fucking crazy that a grown man in a bat suit beating the shit out of a clown should be the funniest thing in the world, but everyone takes it so seriously?”

“It absolutely does,” Harley laughs. “Believe me.”

“Wait, what?”

“Oh, I…” she trails off, shaking her head. “Nevermind, it’s nothing.”

Realization dawns. “No way.”

“Ivy, I really don’t think—”

“He’s here? They caught him? And you’re…”

“Look, I handle a lot of the more… troublesome patients here at Arkham. That includes certain patients under complete isolation for their own and other’s safety.”

Ivy gives a low whistle, sitting back in her chair. “They sure kept that under wraps. How long has he been here?”

“I’m really not supposed to…”

“Harley.” Ivy reaches across the table, hand landing on the cool steel right next to Harley’s. Slowly, searching her face for any reaction, she hooks their pinkies together. “It’s just me, I won’t tell anyone. Lilacs.  _ Promise. _ ”

Harley stares at their hands, jaw working.

_ Adrenochrome. Serotonin. Dopamine.  _ Ivy closes her eyes and lets herself sense what Harley’s feeling.  _ And… norepinephrine. C _ _ 8 _ _ H _ _ 11 _ _ NO _ _ 3 _ _. Produced during attraction to create euphoria, excitement, and pleasure.  _

“Well,” Harley says uncertainly. “I guess it can’t hurt if it’s just you. He’s been here three weeks. He’s actually the reason I got this job, I’m something of a specialist on him.”

And there it is, like a fly caught in a flytrap.  _ Dionaea muscipula.  _ A twinge of guilt arcs up Ivy’s spine, making her want to draw her hand away, save Harley the mortification of being manipulated. Instead, she gently flips Harley’s hand until it’s palm faces up, trailing her fingers up the inside of her wrist, feeling the pulse fluttering beneath the pale, petal soft skin. 

“What’s wrong?” she murmurs. “Is it me, doctor?”

“W—what?”

“Your heartbeat is elevated, and I can smell your endorphins from here. Usually I have to kiss someone to elicit such a response, but perhaps my abilities have…” She lets her gaze flicker down to Harley’s lips. “Evolved.”

Eyes wide, Harley sits back so suddenly that her chair almost topples backwards, yanking her hand away. She blushes, a red flush spreading across her cheeks and down the back of her neck. Stammering, she shakes her head.

“I— er— I have to go.”

“Wait,” Ivy says, sitting up. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean anything by it.”

Harley’s already shoving her things into her messenger bag. “We’ll talk next time. Thank you for your cooperation, Dr. Isley.”

“It’s” —the door slams shut behind Harley— “Ivy.” She presses her palms to her face. “Shit. Misjudged the hell out of that one.”

So maybe this  _ thing _ , whatever it is, with Harley needs to simmer a bit longer. Draw it out of her slowly, coax her to grow in the right shape just for Ivy’s needs.

_ What the hell am I thinking?  _

She doesn’t want Harley pinned under her thumb. Pinned under  _ her,  _ maybe, but she likes her— fuck, and she really does like her, doesn’t she?— as she is, not as some pet plant to be pruned and trimmed to her pleasure. She isn’t even sure that’s possible with her. If she’s competent enough to sit face-to-face with the Joker and come out the other side still herself and smiling, then Ivy’s not sure she can control Harley whether she wants to or not. Something about Harley feels unique. Real, distinct, like her whole life before this has been out of focus, and she’s the first sharp picture she’s seeing. 

Men are tools for her to wield in getting what she wants. Harley is different. If she asks her to stop, she’ll stop, no questions asked. Some games simply aren’t worth playing.

Ivy gets the sense she’s already lost, anyway. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Flower translations:  
> purple hyacinth- sorrow  
> chrysanthemum- joy  
> white camellia- ‘you’re adorable’  
> petunia- anger, resentment  
> lilac- promise
> 
> getting into it now! ivy do be pining tho. me too, ives, me too


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ivy fears she's ruined everything.
> 
> Flower meaning translations in Notes at the end of the chapter.

The weekend passes agonizingly slowly. Edward starts sitting with Ivy, Croc, and Clayface at meals, an annoyance that at least shifts her focus from dreading her Monday meeting with Harley. Assuming Harley hasn’t had her transferred to another doctor already. 

She says nothing about the Joker being in Arkham, as promised. His name is a whisper that haunts the halls, a curse, a prayer. The villains of the city fear, loathe, and respect him in equal parts, and knowing that he’s there in the same building as them might cause an uproar, unbalancing the fragile ecosystem of Arkham Asylum. 

It’s like those little pen towers Harley makes. She chooses not to bump the table and send them crashing down. 

Monday comes. Ivy picks half-heartedly at her lunch, pushing her salad around on her tray. It looks as wilted as she feels. 

“Okay, okay,” Edward says. “Try this one on for size: What kind of men are always above board?”

“I dunno, boring ones?” Croc suggests.

“Not the GCPD.” Clayface slams his fist against the table.

“Ivy?” Edward prompts, snapping his fingers in front of her face. “You with us?”

She’s roused out of her musings. “Hmm? Oh, I actually don’t care.”

“ _Chessmen._ ” 

“Terrible, have an awful day.”

“What’s got your leaves in a bunch?” Croc asks, leaning into her side. 

“Nothing. Get off of me.”

“I bet I can guess.” The misshapen mud of Clayface’s form swirls into a perfect mimicry of Harley, complete with crooked glasses. “Oh, Miss Ivy,” he cries in a dramatic, high-pitched tone. “ _Do_ come into my office, so that I may study _all_ your pistils and stamens in private!”

She stabs him in the forehead with her fork. Croc smashes his tray into his head at the same time, sending clay splattering in wet clumps before they retract into Clayface’s body once more. 

“Rude,” he sniffs. “It was merely a jest.”

“Isley,” a voice calls. Behind them, Wilson waves her over to a group of guards standing in a bunch near the door.

She approaches cautiously. “What did I do?”

“Nothing, yet,” a new voice answers. Harley waves the guards away. “I just wanted to talk to you before this afternoon.”

“Oh.” Her heart trips and stumbles and falls hard. 

Nerves prowl low in her belly as her heart attempts to pick itself back up, forgetting how to beat properly. Harley’s here to inform her that she’s being transferred again, that she’s quitting, that this is the last time they’ll ever see each other. Ivy isn’t ready to say goodbye quite yet and the fear curls between her ribs like strangling kudzu. _Pueraria montana._

Harley waits for the guards to give them some space before continuing, drawing herself up to her full height and squaring her shoulders. “Do you prefer coffee, or tea?”

“Excuse me?”

“Coffee, or tea? I pegged you as a tea gal but I could be wrong.” 

“Er… coffee’s fine.”

“Okay.” She makes a note on her clipboard. “How do you take it?”

“Two sugars, no cream. Are we… having coffee?”

“Yes,” Harley says simply. “We are.” 

She spins on her heel and vanishes into the hallway, the guards on duty returning to their post in front of the door. Charles and Wilson give her a nod, letting her return to her table in peace. Dazed, she sits back down, ignoring the questioning stares of her tablemates. 

“What happened?” Croc prompts.

“I… have no idea.” 

The rest of the day passes in quiet bewilderment. When Charles and Wilson come to retrieve her for her one-on-one with Harley, they turn away from the meeting rooms and towards the building elevators, boarding and stepping out on the third floor before continuing down a narrow, windowless hallway. They pass offices with blank doors, thick slabs of dark wood that reveal nothing about the rooms within. 

After a few turns through identical halls, Ivy is thoroughly lost. She’s been on the third floor only once before, when she met a previous doctor in his office. He’d moved their session to his office for a more… intimate setting.

He’s dead now. That had been the day she escaped her first and far briefer stay at Arkham Asylum. 

Her guards drag her to a halt and pound on one of the doors. The nameplate hanging on the wall is shiny and new, proudly displaying the name _Harleen Quinzel, PhD._ It opens, Harley stepping aside to let her in. 

Ivy hugs herself as she steps through the doorway, studying the office around her as Harley and Wilson converse in low tones. It’s nicer than many of the offices she’s been in. ‘Nice’ being objective in Arkham. 

The walls are the same dark, cracked plaster with cement brick beneath as the rest of the building, though they’re mostly hidden by bookshelves and framed motivational posters. The bookshelves are sparse, occupied by a handful of psychology textbooks and binders overflowing with files. There’s a model of a bald human head with the parts of the brain drawn and labeled over it, and it sits high on a shelf next to a murky bucket of whatever is leaking from the ceiling— filthy rainwater, if Ivy had to guess. 

The desktop looks as old as she is, and is covered in post-it notes scrawled with messy handwriting in bright, sparkling ink. Harley’s PhD is framed and leaning against the wall that the side of the desk is pushed up against. A pair of mismatched coffee mugs steam on the edge of the desk among stacks of files and documents. 

Harley closes the door in Wilson’s face and grabs her chair from behind her desk, dragging it over to the lumpy, patchwork couch that takes up one wall. She motions for Ivy to sit on the couch, grabbing the mugs and offering one out.

Ivy accepts it and takes a tentative sip. Two sugars, no cream. It’s cheap and a tad bitter but after months of asylum food, it’s just about the best thing she’s ever tasted, and she has to stop herself from gulping it all down right then. She takes a seat on the far end of the couch, clutching the warmth of the mug at her chest and folding her legs beneath her.

Her eyes fall onto the painting sitting by a bookshelf, propped up against the wall. It’s a fern. It’s not just any fern, it’s _her_ fern, the one she’d been working on before throwing out. She thought it was gone, but here it is, safe and sound in Harley’s office.

“Where did you get that?”

Harley follows her gaze. “It’s nice, isn’t it?”

“It sucks. Where’d you find it?”

“Well, that’s pretty rude. If I tell you, you have to promise not to judge.”

“Me? Judge you, my therapist?”

“Okay, okay, fair. I found it in the trash. Can you believe that? Someone wanted to throw it out! I think it’s beautiful.”

“It’s not finished,” Ivy says. Still, pride hums deep in her chest, flushing across her shoulders and cheeks. 

“How can you tell?”

“Maidenhair fern. _Adiantum aleuticum._ The water drops on the fronds aren’t done, they should be more defined because the fern repels water and never becomes saturated. Adiantum means ‘unwetted’ in Greek.”

“Hmm.” Harley makes a note of something on her clipboard.

“What are you writing?”

“Don’t worry, nothing bad.” Her pencil scratches across the page. “How are you?”

Ivy narrows her eyes and nurses her drink. “The coffee’s nice.”

“I thought you might enjoy it. We usually only use the rooms downstairs when patients are being belligerent, but you’ve been nothing but cooperative lately, so I thought it might be time to move things to my office.”

“Uh huh. And that’s the only reason.”

“I’m really not sure what you’re implying,” Harley snaps. 

Ivy raises her eyebrows but says nothing, taking a long sip and avoiding eye contact. Harley sighs and sets her notes aside, leaning back in her chair and tapping her pencil against her thigh. 

“How was your weekend?” she asks finally.

“Candytuft.” She hesitates. “Forsythia.”

Harley asks her to elaborate and she obliges, cautiously, telling her about movie night and joining the group for games again and not getting enough outdoor time thanks to the recent rains. 

“And what does that have to do with forsythia? It means anticipation, right?”

She worries at her bottom lip, staring at the dredges of her coffee. “I was dreading this. Our session. I couldn’t think about anything else, so much so that I let Eddie convince me to play _Just Dance_ with him. I wasn’t paying attention at all.”

“What is causing this sense of dread? Can you pinpoint it?”

“I thought… I thought you might not want to see me anymore, after last time. But you’re sort of the first friend I’ve made in…”

“In?” Harley prompts.

“No, that’s it. You’re the first friend I’ve made. If you don’t count plants.”

She conveniently erases any mention of her college days. Anyone she met in that era of her life is gone, one way or another, and Woodrue isn’t worth the thought.

Harley sighs. “I’m glad you consider us friends, but I’m your doctor first and foremost. Are you not making friends among the other patients? Anyone you can talk to, confide in, enjoy the presence of?”

“How many of your patients consider you a friend?”

“All of them, I hope. I like to make connections with people, I feel that it helps th—”

“Even the Joker?”

Silence. Ivy smirks, realizing she’s touched a nerve, and speaks without thinking. 

“What’s wrong, doc? Joker immune to your ditzy little charms? Or is _he_ the charming one? You know, I’ve heard—”

The pencil in Harley’s hand snaps. She blinks at it in surprise, dropping the two splintered halves to the carpet and making no effort to pick them up. 

“I’m trying to be nice,” she says quietly, eyes fixed on the pencil. “I’m trying to be nice because you responded well to kindness, and I’d like for us to be friends, but you’re _really_ testing my patience with this repeated overfamiliarity.” 

Moving slowly, keeping her hands outstretched as if calming a wild animal, Ivy sets her mug aside and kneels, picking up the broken pencil and tossing it into the waste bin next to the desk. She remains down on one knee in front of Harley, gazing up at her, weighing her words carefully.

“Sorry,” she says finally. “It’s a habit. I like you, but I can’t trust you, and I’m having a hard time balancing those two things.”

“You _can_ trust me. It’s a matter of will or won’t.”

“I wish it were that simple. I happen to enjoy your ditzy little charms.”

“You think I’m ditzy?” She arcs a brow.

“No, but you like for people to think you are. It’s clever, making them underestimate you. Almost had me doing the same thing. Almost.”

Harley’s cute when she blushes. She’s cute all the time, really, but the way her face flushes pink is just so achingly _human,_ the little furrow in her brow, the way her lips purse. Ivy can sense the spike in adrenaline that accompanies the blush, the way her heart hesitates a beat before rushing to catch up. 

“Do you know why I gave you this second chance after last session?” Harley asks. 

Ivy returns to her seat on the couch. “Why?”

“You’re the only one to ever help fix the pen tower. Usually it takes multiple sessions for patients to stop knocking it over— normal, you’re in a place where you feel you have no control, so you take every opportunity to exert control when it comes along— but I always stop with the pens after the patients stop bumping the table. It shows growth. You skipped letting me finish it and went straight to helping me, something I’ve never seen before.”

She pinches the bridge of her nose. Of _course_ the pens were a test. 

“And what does that say about me?”

“That you’re different.”

“So the green skin wasn’t the first hint at that? Maybe you _are_ ditzy.”

“Very funny. You know what I mean.”

“Okay,” Ivy sighs. “So I’m a fascinating psychological study. I don’t see your point.”

Harley leans forward and for a second Ivy thinks she’s about to grab her hand, but she knits her fingers together in her lap instead, wringing them anxiously. 

“According to your files, you’ve shown more progress in the last week than you have in the months you’ve spent here between your two stays. My first thought is you’re using a fresh face to manipulate your way to freedom, but you pass tests that you’re not even aware of.” She does grab Ivy’s hand, then, and Ivy’s mind goes blank. “I think you’re making progress because you want to be. Because you’re capable of it.”

“Or you’re just really gullible.” It comes out hoarse.

“Am I?”

She swallows hard and shakes her head. Harley gives her hand a squeeze and retreats. 

“Besides,” she says lightly, adjusting her glasses and retrieving a new pen. “Between us, you’re _much_ more charming than the Joker. I don’t think he realizes that ‘pasty and unhinged’ isn’t quite my type.”

“But green and unhinged is?”

“I was thinking more along the lines of ‘ginger and a gardener’, but that works, too.” She gives Ivy a dark look over the rim of her glasses, but her eyes are shining with amusement, a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. 

A warmth blooms in Ivy’s chest. 

_She found the note._

This raises several questions in her mind, first and foremost the desire to ask _So? Were you thinking of me?_ but she bites her tongue. It feels like they’re settling again, however precariously. No use tilling the soil when things are trying to take root. 

She grins. “You’re sending me mixed signals here, doc. I’m not allowed to flirt, but you are? I’d say I’m feeling like irises.”

“Yellow carnations.”

“Ouch.”

Harley matches her smile. “That’s for calling me ditzy.”

“I actually said you _aren’t,_ though. If we’re being technical here.”

“Fine.” She rolls her eyes. “If I change my answer, can we continue the session in peace? We’ve barely gotten anywhere today.”

Ivy nods, relenting, and Harley chews thoughtfully on the end of her pen. 

“Hmm. Alright. Striped carnations.”

It’s her turn to blush, heat prickling beneath her skin. “I’ll take it.”

“Wonderful. Shall we?”

“Your lead, Dr. Quinzel.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Flower translations:  
> candytuft- indifference  
> forsythia- anticipation  
> iris- hope  
> yellow carnation- rejection  
> striped carnation- sorry i can’t be with you/i wish i could be with you
> 
> oh lawd they a flirtin'
> 
> thank you to everyone who's left kudos or comments, they always brighten my day :)


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ivy goes on a fieldtrip.

The weeks slide by and Ivy feels more human than she has in years. 

Harley brings her books, swapping the old borrowed ones for whatever she’s gotten her hands on. Twice Ivy mockingly scolds her for stealing library books to loan out, offering to pay the late fees for her as soon as she escapes. Harley doesn’t like it when she jokes about escaping, so she picks other things to joke about. She’s not as funny as Harley is, but it’s easy to earn a smile either way. She likes making her smile.

She’d consider herself Dr. Quinzel’s star pupil if it weren’t for Killer Croc. Four times now he’s broken up fights or riots before they really begin, forcing the combatants through the exercises Harley’s given him to express his feelings without violence. More often than not he’s out of his room, off doing God knows what, which he claims to be specialized sessions. 

Edward manages to rope Ivy into more and more group activities, egged on by Harley’s gentle encouragement. She loathes most of them, but kills at card games between her deadpan nature and her penchant for knowing exactly when she’s being lied to. 

_Catecholamines,_ she tells Edward one night after winning the pot. _C6_ _H_ _4(_ _OH)_ _2_ _. Produced when under duress, such as lying. They reek of it._

He just shakes his head and gives an appreciative whistle. After that, he somehow always ends up on her team for partner games, and she valiantly pretends not to notice. She lets him, Croc, and Clayface split half of her winnings at the vending machines and keeps the rest to bet again. 

When Ivy finishes her jasmine painting, she throws it away. It mysteriously appears in Harley’s office before their next session, hung next to the fern on the wall by the door. 

“What’s your favorite flower?” she asks Harley one day, laying sprawled across her couch. Her head is thrown back over the armrest, studying her paintings upside-down. 

“I don’t know.” Harley has her chair leaned back, playing a game on her phone with her feet propped up in Ivy’s lap. “I like them all, I guess.”

“Pick one.”

“Violets are nice.”

“Violets _are_ nice,” she agrees. 

“Damn it. Can you solve this level for me?”

“Again? Hand it over.”

_Viola odorata. Honesty, passion, and sapphic love._

Harley says nothing when a photorealistic painting of a violet appears in Arkham’s art room trash. She simply accepts it and hangs it up with the others. 

Ivy tells her things she’s never told anyone, and she doesn’t realize she’s doing it until long after their sessions, when she’s staring at the dark ceiling of her cell in the small hours of the morning, turning their conversations over and over in her mind. Ivy’s father hit her and her mother both. Harley can relate. Ivy’s father buried her mother in her own garden. Harley’s eyes soften. She lays her hand on Ivy’s knee and gives a gentle squeeze, not fighting when Ivy changes the subject and launches into a tirade about the invasive species of plants plaguing Gotham. 

A thousand little things that Harley knows about her, a carefully sketched picture of her life. A dozen big things that fill in the portrait with bold strokes, slashes of color that bury everything beneath. 

Her favorite song. A movie she hates. The first man she ever killed.

She wants her to understand that she isn’t crazy, she isn’t sick, and she doesn’t belong here with the madmen and psychopaths, the monsters and mass murderers. Ivy is none of these. She’s a woman with a mission, hellbent on saving the world whether it wants to be saved or not, and it’s no fault of hers that humans love to get in her way. The planet will die if she doesn’t act, and losing a few souls along the way is of little consequence to her.

Harley always looks at her with a strange pity when she tries to explain this. Her diatribes sour on her tongue and an unfamiliar type of shame festers deep inside her, like fungus clinging to the roots of a tree.

* * *

She’s laying in bed reading when a knock comes at her door. It’s not a one-on-one day, so she isn’t expecting any reason to be out of her room and she peers over the top of her book to find Killer Croc standing there with Harley and a guard, offering her a little wave. Discarding the novel, she hops up and comes over to the glass, arms folded.

“What do you want?”

Harley clears her throat pointedly.

“Sorry,” Ivy says, softening her tone. “What’s up, buddy?”

“Dr. Quinzel says you’re allowed to come,” Croc replies.

Harley pats him on the back. “I told him he could invite a friend, anyone he wants, and he chose you. Isn’t that great, Ivy?”

“You lost me.” She backs away as the guard begins unlocking her door. “What am I being invited to?”

Croc taps his front claws together nervously. “Do you wanna come with me to my private session today?”

Ivy shoots Harley an inquisitive look, but gets no response. She’s staring at her shoes, swaying slightly in place, and Ivy’s concern outweighs her apprehension.

“Uh, sure, yeah. Sounds good.”

He beams at her as the door opens and she joins them in the hallway. It would be endearing if it weren’t so grisly. “Team green?”

“Team green.”

Harley and the guard begin leading them down the hallway, away from the residential wing and towards the common areas. Game rooms that rarely see use, the too small theater room, a basketball court whose doors have never been unlocked, a derelict gym. Ivy peers into every room they pass, trying to gauge where they’re headed. 

Usually, being led anywhere unfamiliar in Arkham dredges up a buried sense of dread; the deteriorating asylum promises new horrors down every hallway at the whim of the doctors on staff. She’s seen too many days strapped to a table in the medical wing, syringes with unknown chemicals and faces hidden behind the fluorescent glare of the lights overhead. They once drew so much blood from her in a single sitting that she passed out long before they were done, never learning what they planned to do with it. 

Ivy’s seen a lot of Arkham’s medical wing. She spent most of her first visit in a well-earned drug-induced haze after she turned her first doctor inside out using the salad he had for lunch.

Despite these unsavory memories sprouting in her mind like weeds, she’s calm. Croc hums a tuneless ditty in a deep, growling bass, uninterested by their surroundings and completely at ease. What’s more, Harley’s the one facilitating this little fieldtrip, and Ivy knows that she would never willingly endanger her. 

Harley stumbles slightly and Ivy grabs her before the guard can react, gently righting her with her arm slipped around her waist. 

“Sorry.” Harley gives a little breathless laugh. “It’s these heels.”

One of the first times Ivy ever saw Harley, she got caught in her car door and reacted so quickly and gracefully that Ivy had guessed she was a gymnast or dancer. Now she's tripping over her own feet? 

“Back away from her,” the guard orders, fingers closing over his baton. Croc snarls at him, hackles raised, and he draws it, the electricity buzzing to life with the press of a button. 

Ivy narrows her eyes at him, hugging Harley tighter. Harley pushes her off.

“I’m fine. She was just helping. We’re all okay here.” 

Slowly, never taking his eyes off of her, the guard slides his baton back into its holster at his hip. Croc’s thundering growl trails off and he relaxes, putting a claw on Ivy’s shoulder and letting Harley and the guard start leading them again.

“Thanks,” Ivy whispers to him. “For having my back there.”

He gives her a pat on the head, mussing up her hair, and continues after their escort. Scowling, she trails along behind, trying to smooth down the mess he made. 

Ivy rubs at her arm where it had been wrapped around Harley, trying to cling to the warmth lingering from the touch. She’d been close enough to sense her heightened endorphins, as well as the increased level of gamma-Aminobutyric acid.

_C4H9NO2, an inhibitory neurotransmitter. Can result in slurred speech and a loss of inhibition. Levels are increased by consuming alcohol._

What the hell is Harley doing drinking at work?

She’s been off her game lately. They spend sessions quietly enjoying each other’s company more often than not, but Ivy would almost rather spill her guts than have to solve another one of those puzzle games Harley tools around on rather than pay attention. She should have noticed it was getting worse, should have said something, but she always gets reprimanded for noting things about Harley’s personal life. It hadn’t seemed like so much of a big deal until now. 

They arrive at their destination, a set of heavy metal doors set into the cement brick walls, rust gnawing away at the edges in dark splotches. The guard shoves one of the doors open and holds it for them, glaring down Croc and Ivy as they pass. 

She’s hit with a salty tang of stale water and thick, humid air. The room that they step into is an indoor pool, the water murky and dark, framed with cracked tiles slick with condensation. Hazy sunlight filters in through thin brown and green windows, stained from years without cleaning in the humidity of the enclosed space. They’re rusted shut, red staining the sills and creeping outward across paneling on the walls, leaking a dark substance where it meets the once white tiles. The tinted light catches in the water and sends warped reflections dancing across the ceiling, gold and green and blue. 

Despite the filth, it’s almost beautiful. Ivy cranes her neck to look at the high vaulted ceiling, listen to the echo of water rippling gently like a far away song. The door crashes shut, screaming on rusty hinges, closing the guard out on the other side. Ivy watches through the window as he exits the building, taking post outside and lighting up a cigarette. Anger roils within her but she bites it back, not willing to ruin the field trip. 

Harley shrugs off her lab coat and tosses it on the ground, taking a seat on the bunched material and observing Croc as he strips off his jumpsuit and dives into the pool. Ivy joins her, picking out a clean enough spot and settling with her legs crossed beneath her. 

“So, his special sessions are just… swimming?” Her voice echoes in the large space.

“Basically. His scales were, like, dry and cracking when I first met him. He needs regular… what’s the word, submersion? ‘Cause your shower times weren’t cutting it, so I convinced Dr. Arkham to make use of this old pool, which was originally supposed to be for fun.”

“Why am I here?”

Harley lowers her voice. “One of Waylon’s biggest issues is feeling… uhrg, I can’t think of the right word. Left out. Like a freak. Ostracized, that’s it. I thought he might do better if he had a friend around, helping him feel more like a part of something, and he’s grown pretty fond of you.”

“Despite my best efforts.”

“Yeah, well, your efforts suck.”

Croc resurfaces, just the top of his head emerging from the water, scales slick. He makes a deep rumbling noise in the back of his throat, similar to a purr, and Ivy gets the sense that it’s one of satisfaction. He swims over to the edge of the pool where they sit, gliding through the water effortlessly. 

“Do you wanna come in, Ivy?”

“No thanks, bud. I’m not a halophyte.”

“A who?”

She scoops up a palmful of water and flicks it in his face. “I don’t do well in salt. More of a freshwater gal.”

“Halophyte,” Harley interrupts. “I remember this one. Grows in water with high salinity. Like mangroves!”

“Yeah, like mangroves.” Ivy cocks her head. “How’d you know that?”

“I’m a real good listener. It’s sort of my job, you know, to listen to you, even when you’re just talking about plants for an hour and a half.”

“Tell me about the mangoes,” Croc says, flipping onto his back and drifting off towards the center of the pool.

“Mangroves,” she corrects. “ _Rhizophora mangle_.”

Ivy explains how mangroves are unique, from their sprawling environments in brackish wetlands to their viviparous reproduction cycle. Croc interjects often, dragging them down winding tangents and branching digressions about other plants and wildlife. 

Eventually, they lapse into silence. Ivy props her chin up and watches Harley, who leans back on her hands and stares at the far wall. She wonders what she’s seeing in the reflections shimmering there. Her own version of a Rorschach test, maybe. There are dark circles under her eyes and her face is drawn and pale, exhaustion etched into every line. When Croc submerges himself again, Ivy sits up and scoots closer, seizing the opportunity at a mote of privacy.

“You look tired, Harley.”

She doesn’t even glance over. “I am tired.”

Ivy leans back on her hands, mimicking Harley’s pose. Slowly, she shifts her hand over, hooking her pinky around Harley’s, watching her face carefully the whole while. She barely reacts, jaw working, eyes distant, until she links their fingers together fully and leans her weight against her side. Ivy briefly entertains the idea that she might try and kiss her, then and there. She doesn’t. Ivy stamps the thought down.

“What’s wrong?” she asks.

“Nothing’s wrong.”

“Please don’t lie to me.”

She takes a deep, shuddering breath. “I’m fine, okay? Lay off.”

“Tell me why you’re drunk right now.”

“I’m not—” Harley sits back, glaring at her. “I am not _drunk_. How can you even tell?”

“It’s hard to explain, but I can sense it. So maybe you’re not drunk, but you _have_ been drinking, and that worries me.”

“Hah. Worries you.”

“I’m allowed to be worried, okay? Don’t make me pull the ‘friendship’ card, you know I hate it. Is it work related?” 

She settles back against her side, hanging her head. “Yeah. Sort of.”

“Is it… is it me?”

“No! Well, sort of. I don’t know. I’m just tired, like you said, that’s all. Tired of this place. Tired of sitting there across from him, actually listening to what he has to say. Tired of almost agreeing with him.”

Ivy doesn’t need to ask who. The haunted look is enough.

_The Joker._

“He’s right, you know,” Harley says with a high, brittle laugh. “About the way Gotham’s highest treats everyone else, the way they keep getting away with it. About how you’re all caged up here like animals while the worst of the worst rub elbows at rooftop galas in million dollar suits.” She seizes Ivy’s arm with a sudden desperation, nails digging in. “You’re right, too. The billionaires, the corporations, the politicians, all of it should be torn down. But I can’t— I can’t _tell_ you that, or they’ll think I’m crazy, too.”

“You’re scaring me a little here.”

“Scary? No, no, it’s not _scary._ If anything, it’s _funny._ ”

She laughs, a breathless giggle that quickly rises in pitch until it’s more like the high keening of a rapid gunfire, quick and sharp and humorless. Ivy cups her face in her hands and Harley cuts herself off, confusion flooding her face. She folds her hands over Ivy’s, trembling slightly, eyes shining. 

“I think you need some time off, Harls,” Ivy murmurs. 

“It was just a joke.” Her voice is low and ragged. “It’s all such a _joke_.”

“You don’t have to laugh at it if you don’t want to.”

Harley slumps forward, resting her forehead on Ivy’s shoulder. “I’m just tired, that’s all. I don’t want to go back in there with him, but if I don’t, I lose everything I’ve worked for. _He’s_ the only reason Mr. Wayne is funding my research.”

“You’re stronger than him. Walk away if you have to, but don’t let him win. You’re a genius psychologist, Harley, you can find work elsewhere.”

“I don’t _want_ work elsewhere.”

“We don’t always get what we want,” she says, tracing her fingers along Harley’s jaw. She can feel the serotonin and adrenaline simmering just beneath the skin. 

_Serotonin, C₁₀H₁₂N₂O,_ she notes. _Modulates mood, cognition, and memory. Often produced in the initial phase of the sexual response cycle._

_Anticipatory. Needy._

Harley pulls back just barely enough to be face to face. “No,” she says. “We don’t.”

An alarm goes off on Harley’s phone, the clamorous peal echoing through the chamber and rousing Croc from his submersion. They jump away from each other, Harley scrambling for the alarm as Croc drags himself out of the water and shakes like a dog, patting himself dry with a waiting towel and stepping back into his jumpsuit. 

“Shit.” Harley manages to silence her phone. “Time’s up.” 

Ivy stays sitting for a long moment, trying to commit the look in Harley’s eyes to memory. There was something there, something lurking beneath the surface that she wants to bottle and get drunk on every night. Whatever it was, it’s more than she can have. She plants it like a seed and promises not to think about it until it blooms. 

She follows Harley and Croc wordlessly into the hallway, joining up with the guard once more. Harley stammers something about paperwork and splits off towards her office, damp lab coat slung over one shoulder. She and Croc are escorted back to their rooms in silence, and she finally rouses herself from her thoughts of Harley just as the guard fastens the lock on Croc’s door.

“Hey,” she calls, just before the guard drags her away. “Har— Dr. Quinzel called you something back there. Waylon. Is that… do you want to be called that?”

His face drops, and he presses a hand to the glass of his cell. “I… I’d like that. Waylon Jones is my name.”

“Okay, Waylon.” She puts her palm to the glass over his. “See you around.”

“Yeah.” He voice fades as she’s forced into her room, the door closing behind her. “Thanks, Ivy. No one's ever asked before.”

She paces her room until dinner, restless and distant even after lights out. Harley called her scared and she wasn’t far off, but it wasn’t out of any concern for herself. She’s nothing but unimpressed with the Joker. His shadow covers all of Gotham but she’s no spring fern, cowering at the roots of the city’s underbelly. She’s long since outgrown him, reaching higher for a light all her own. It’s Harley that she’s worried about.

It’s not that she doesn’t think Harley can handle herself— she knows for a fact that she’s more than capable— but Joker is a parasite, worming his way into anything and everything that gets too close and spreading the disease of his influence. 

This type of disquiet is new to her. This type of care for another being. She’s afraid she knows exactly what’s plaguing her, but she can’t quite admit it, not yet. Not even to herself. But these things have a tendency to fester into habits, and she’s starting to realize that she’s been quietly tending to this particular garden since the first day she met Harley. She gets the feeling that someday it’s going to grind her into fertilizer to feed itself, and there’s nothing she can do to stop it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this one's for all you croc stans out there. there's just something about being a green half-human hybrid that feels a distinct disconnect from any society they try to fit into but still craves love
> 
> a bit of a longer chapter, so thanks for sticking around! and thanks for reading! hope everyone's enjoying!! :)


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ivy makes a choice, and Harley does, too.
> 
> Flower meaning translations in Notes at the end of the chapter

Ivy can sense the rose before she’s inside the office.

It cries out to her from somewhere dark and stale. She can feel it’s pain, feel it withering away, but there’s still time. If she can get to it fast enough, she can save it’s life.

She’s immediately distracted by Harley opening the door with a relieved smile, hair falling loose across her shoulders in golden waves. It’s kinked in some places as though she's just tugged it loose from her usual strict bun, and she combs her fingers through it hurriedly as Ivy’s ushered through the door and towards the couch. 

“Man, am I glad to see you,” she says. 

Ivy’s mouth goes dry. 

_ Tell her she looks nice,  _ some distant part of her calls.

“Uh,” she manages. 

The top several buttons of Harley’s shirt are undone. Should she point it out? Would that be weird? Should she stop staring? She should stop staring. She fixes her gaze on the ceiling instead.

“You good?” Harley asks, flopping into her chair. It spins slowly with her momentum and she lets it, twirling in a lazy circle, head lolled back to find whatever Ivy’s studying on the ceiling. 

She wanders over to the desk, where two cups of coffee wait, and selects one. “Me? Good, yes. I’m fine. You? How you are, I mean. Right.”

“You seem completely normal today.”

“Oh, fuck off.”

“Wait, don’t—” Harley winces as Ivy takes a sip.

She grimaces as the sweet and smooth taste of whiskey washes over her tongue, mingling with the bitter coffee. As soon as she’s done reeling from the unexpected alcohol, she takes another drink and sits down. Harley doesn’t seem like she’s been drinking yet, but the Irish coffee suggests she’s ready to be, and it’s unlike her to look so informal at work.

It’s concern that’s making Ivy warm all over, that’s all. And the booze. Definitely nothing else based on Harley’s appearance. She clears her throat.

“Jesus, Harley. What is this, Kentucky Straight? It’s terrible.”

Harley flushes, shoulders tense, back ramrod straight. “That’s  _ my  _ mug.”

“Should have been more careful with it. I’m confiscating it for investigative purposes, you can have it back when it’s no longer considered evidence.”

“Evidence of what?”

“Harley.” She forces herself to meet her eye, ignoring her beautiful hair and lovely pink blush and more casual than business attire. “What happened to taking some time off?”

“I don’t need time off, I need answers. I need progress, I need him, I need a drink. Give it here, okay?” She reaches for the mug. 

Ivy holds it out of reach. A darkened parody of one of their first encounters. Her stomach twists at the way Harley says  _ him.  _ She needs him? What can he offer that Ivy possibly couldn't? She has everything he has and so much more. Harley deserves more.

When she speaks, her voice is low and deadly. "Him? Who's him?" 

Harley pales. Her mouth twitches, eyes narrowed, and Ivy's sure that they’re both aware exactly who they’re talking about. 

"No one. Whoever. My patients, all of you here at Arkham. That's what I meant."

"No, it isn't."

"What do you know?" 

_ I’m here,  _ the rose murmurs. 

"I know enough." 

"You're stepping out of line again." 

_ Find me,  _ the rose whimpers. 

"I'm just looking out for you." 

"I never asked you to. Don't make me call Wilson in here."

_ Use me,  _ the rose begs. 

Anger surges deep within her, a venom that boils in her blood and seeps from her skin. Inside its darkened tomb, the rose begins to grow, writhing tendrils of vine and thorn that thrash wildly. There's a sharp thud from the desk, and Harley turns towards it. 

Thinking fast, Ivy dumps her coffee into her lap and across the carpet. "Fuck." 

Harley whips back around, forgetting about the noise. “Oh, shit, that was hot coffee. Are you okay? Hold on, I’ll get towels.”

“Sorry.”

“It’s fine. Just stay put.” She gently pulls the cup out of Ivy’s hands and sets it aside, hurrying towards the door.

Ivy listens as it opens, hearing the low tones of Harley discussing with the guards outside. When she’s sure she’s distracted, she lunges for the desk, moving as quickly and quietly as possible. Thin tendrils of green spread from the bottom drawer on the left. 

She tries the handle, but it’s locked. Brushing her fingertips along the escaping vines, she focuses her energy and the Green responds, the rose spreading and worming and snapping the lock’s mechanism from inside. When she tugs on the drawer’s handle again, it slides open, and she wills the rose’s thorny growths away, allowing it to retract to its original form.

A single red rose, neatly snipped at the stem. A small tag is tied to it.

> _ A flower for my flower. Hope this brings a smile. _
> 
> _ You know how I love your smile. _
> 
> _ Yours, Mr. J.  _

The anger twists and stretches and grows to fill her. There was a time in her life when she was nothing but wrath, and Harley almost made her forget that, but it returns with force now. Ivy lifts the rose out, bringing it to her face and letting the sweet perfume of growing things wash over her as she twirls it between two fingers. The Green sings to her through the little flower, humming of the destruction she could bring with a gift such as this. 

She’s sitting on the desk, eyes closed, petals brushing her lips, when Harley returns. 

The towel in her hands drops. She swallows hard, eyes dancing from the rose to Ivy and back. 

_Epinephrine_ , Ivy notes idly. _C₉H₁₃NO₃._ _Adrenaline. Fear, and with good cause._

She can taste it from across the room. It's one of the first compounds she learned to identify by smell alone, being the most common one she encounters. Anyone who isn't at least a little afraid of her is either kidding themselves or lying. 

“A flower,” she quotes. “For my flower. How sweet. Don’t you agree, Dr. Quinzel?”

“How did you find that?” Her voice is small but steady.

“It found me. Poor little thing’s been treated awful bad, being sliced up and stuffed in a drawer. All this time with me, and you still haven’t learned how to take care of a plant?”

Harley shuts the door behind her. “It’s not what you think.”

She fights to keep her voice even. “You know, when I first met you I thought you were just another white coat I was going to dupe or destroy, whichever came easiest. But here you are, duping me instead. I’m impressed, really.”

“No, Ivy—”

“But you’re obviously not  _ that  _ clever, are you? There’s a reason they don’t allow plant life within fifty meters of me. It must have taken something special to get this past the x-rays, but Joker’s always had that kind of sway around here. Tell me, did he have it delivered? Dropped off? Or did he give it to you himself?”

“He… it was on my desk when I got in this morning.”

“Ah. Cute.” She pins the stem between her fingers and makes a finger gun, petals bleeding out of the barrel. She levels it as Harley. “I guess the only question left is why you told him about me.”

“What?” 

“Oh, come on, Harley, I know it comes easy for you, but try not to be an idiot.”

Her jaw clenches, fingers curling into fists as her sides. She stamps across the room and Ivy can’t help but chuckle at her fury. There’s something dangerous in those eyes, though, and she bites off her laughter as she grows near.

“You think I don’t realize what he’s doing?” she growls. “What  _ you’re  _ doing? You all love to underestimate me, think you’re wooing me, getting the upper hand. No way a blonde little bimbo could outsmart a supervillain, right? Well, jokes on you, I’m not even a real blonde!”

“I did underestimate you, didn’t I? You had me believing I was special, that you cared about me, and I think I’ll spend a very long time paying for it. It was only a game the first few times. It became something else.” She scowls at the rose in her hand.

_ Rosaceae. I love you. _

Harley’s hand hovers over hers, fingers brushing softly against her knuckles. Ivy's not smelling the rose anymore, nor any trace of fear. Only Harley’s sweet perfume, the honey and jasmine and violet melody that lingers always in her dreams. 

“I could tear Arkham apart, brick by brick,” Ivy says. “I could kill every last doctor and nurse, free all the inmates, and make you watch. I could make you suffer before you die. And who gave me the means to do it?”

“It was an accident.”

She cups Harley’s jaw, tilting her chin up. “No, Harley, it wasn’t. The Joker did. You were only ever a pawn for him, a tool to get to someone with the power to set him loose upon Gotham once more.”

“And will you? Kill us all?”

Ivy hesitates. Every fiber of her being screams  _ yes.  _ It’s there for the taking, the promise of freedom lingering sweet like honey on her tongue. One thought from her and the rose takes her lead, tearing Arkham asunder and ripping apart everything she loathes about it with the wrath of Mother Nature. 

When she doesn’t respond, Harley speaks.

“Red tulips. Please, Ivy.”

“No. It’s too late for that.”

“It isn’t.” She’s close now, but she shifts even closer, and Ivy can feel her warmth pressing up against her. "You  _ know _ I care about you."

“I’ve been taken advantage of before, and I swore it would never happen again.”

She throws her hands up and laughs, that high titter, vicious and violent. “Fine, then. Great! Just dandy, I didn’t plan on spending my Friday talking down a maniac hellbent on self-destruction, anyway.” She paces over to the couch and throws herself down on it. “Go ahead, put us in the news. I’ve always wanted to be on TV.”

Ivy hops off the desk. “Really? This is an emotionally charged moment. You’re sort of ruining it.”

Harley pulls out her phone.

“This would make for a terrible story. That could have been my redemptive turning point, but you’re ruining the whole scene.”

“The world isn’t a story, Ivy, it’s all just a big joke. Take it or leave it.”

Ivy sits down next to her. “I think I’m missing the punchline.”

Harley hits her without looking up from her phone, a solid punch on the shoulder. Pain jars up her arm and she jumps back a bit.

“Ow! What the fuck?”

“There’s your punchline. Hah! Get it?”

Ivy glares at her, lounging on the lumpy couch with her crooked glasses and wild hair and wrinkled shirt, trying to resummon her anger. It’s gone, though, and what floods her instead is a warm fondness. 

She was never going to kill Harley. Everyone else, maybe, but not her.

“You could come with me,” she says. It tumbles out of its own volition, a desire that she didn’t recognize until it gave itself a voice. “We could run, right now. I can get us out.”

She hates the desperation in her voice. She hates the hope unfurling itself in her chest, spring flowers in full bloom. She hates the pitying look Harley offers.

“I can’t,” Harley says, sitting up. “You understand that I can’t, right? I’m not ready to leave my life behind yet.”

Ivy thinks the anger might return, then, giving her that final shove to action. It doesn’t. She just feels a hollow sort of misery. Not sad like an idle thought, but like winter, like the turn of the leaves, like snow and ice and the growing world asleep. Daunting, and lonely, and endless. 

_ Yet. _

“Would you go if he asked?”

She chews on her lip for a long moment. “No.”

The hesitation is too long. Ivy closes her eyes and pushes everything she’s feeling into the flower in her hand, and when she opens them again, it’s a withered, blackened husk. The dead rose tumbles from her grasp, hitting the floor with a dry crunch. 

“I won’t be his pawn,” she says. “Nor will I be yours. Next time, I won’t waver. When the day comes, I’ll tear this place apart, and nothing you can do will stop me.”

Harley takes her hand, sliding their palms together and linking their fingers. “I wish things were different. I wish I didn’t have to spend all that time with him, studying him, trying to help him. I’m getting nowhere.”

“Study me instead. I promise I’ll be a perfect basket case.”

“You certainly make for more enjoyable company.”

“Go on, then. Enjoy me.”

It comes out more intense than she intends, but she likes the way the words hang in the air between them so she makes no effort to double back. Harley’s face reddens, Ivy’s new favorite shade of pink, and for the briefest of moments her gaze flicks down to her lips. She leans forward, head tilting slightly, breath sweet and warm and so close.

“Oh, believe me,” Harley breathes. “I’d love to.”

Ivy wants to. She wants to, and it terrifies her, because she doesn’t want it like a death sentence, like a means to an end, like a way of wielding power. She wants it like a question. She wants it like a promise. 

But she presses her fingers to Harley’s lips just before they meet hers, gently pushing her away.

Harley jerks back. “What am I  _ doing?” _ she gasps. “I— you’re—”

“It’s okay.”

“It really isn’t! You’re my patient, I could lose my license…” She swallows hard and sits up, turning away hastily. “I should, er, you…” She hooks her thumb towards the door. “We should probably end there for today.”

“Harley, wait, I’m sorry—”

“It’s fine, really, my fault. It was unprofessional of me.”

“Please look at me. Harley, red carnations.  _ Please. _ ”

She shakes her head. “I’m well aware of your… habits with previous doctors, you admitted it yourself. I got overly familiar and I apologize, Dr. Isley. Let’s pick up on our last topic next session. I’ll walk you out.”

“It’s  _ Ivy _ .” 

“I know. But this entire conversation has been a mistake.”

Ivy stands to follow Harley as she heads for the door, putting a hand over it and pushing it closed as the other woman begins to open it. Harley seizes up, spinning to face her and finding herself pinned to the door with wide eyes. Ivy grabs her wrists, pressing her hands to the door and sliding them above her head, locking her in place. 

There’s a look in Harley’s eyes that she wants to get drunk on. A desire like the glint of the blade, the echo of the fist. Like she knows it will kill her to have it but she’ll die without it anyway. Murderous. Incessant. Poisonous. She wants to tangle her fingers in Harley’s hair, pin her there fully, take everything she has to offer and make her beg for more. Moving slowly, Ivy drops her hands and steps away, giving Harley room to flee. She remains. 

“I’m afraid that against my better judgement I’ve grown quite fond of you. I just want you to know that this isn’t some game or trick. It hasn’t been for a long time.”

“I… I should have you transferred to a new doctor.” 

Ivy swallows the despair that rises like bile in her throat. “Are you going to?”

“I should. You’re dangerous.”

“Not to you. Never to you.”

“ _ Especially _ to me.”

“Are you going to send me away?”

She steps closer and for a moment Ivy thinks she’s going to embrace her, hands rising halfway to hover over her hips, chin tilted up defiantly to look her in the eye. Then she brushes past her and walks to her desk, smoothing out her blouse and adjusting her glasses. 

“I’ll see you on Monday.” Her voice is steady and business-like. 

“Harley…”

“You can go now.”

She lingers, waiting for Harley to change her mind, to call her back, to even just glance up. But she remains focused on the documents on her desk, skimming and reorganizing, face impassive. Ivy tries not to grimace. It’s no more bitter than any poison she’s used to. 

Red tulips. Ivy wonders if she meant it or if it was just another string dragging her along in a marionette show, tricking her into killing the flower. Harley orchestrates the steps and Ivy dances them obediently.

Adrenaline hums in her veins and she feels shaky all the way back to her room. Harley called her dangerous but she certainly doesn’t feel it. She might have seemed more in control of the situation— bold actions, big words— but she would have bent like a sapling in a storm if Harley had asked her to. In that moment, gazing into her eyes, she realized the enormity not only of her own desire but of Harley’s, the knife’s edge they’ve found themselves balanced on. 

Ivy has spent her entire adult life choosing plants over humans. Embracing the half of herself without feeling, without remorse. But she’d lie down in the flame and let herself burn just to keep Harley warm. Harley, who accepts tokens from the Joker, who dreams of running off with a supervillain, who has coaxed and pruned Ivy into just the right shape for her needs. 

Who, really, is the dangerous one here?

She’s certain it isn’t her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Flower translations:  
> red tulip- declaration of love  
> red carnation- my heart aches for you
> 
> harley's not ok folks! 
> 
> we're nearing the endgame now, so thanks for stickin with me, hope you're enjoying it!! :)


End file.
